


Yours To Hold

by kirschtrash



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Bullying, Comedian!Marco, Dork Jean Kirstein, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Homophobic Language, Humor, Implied/Referenced Anxiety, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Anxiety, Pastel Marco Bott, This is just really long im sorry, Yet i aint sorry lololol, mentions of bullying, tiny bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirschtrash/pseuds/kirschtrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has had a normal, rather insignificant life: all he had ever done was work in a coffee shop, that sold flowers as well. He never tried doing something different, never tried to become bigger than the world he lived in;</p><p>It all changed when he met a strange man - who loved flowers, and making people laugh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours To Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this thing: mentions of anxiety and self-hatred; also includes themes of bullying, so please be careful! Enjoy! <3

**_Yours To Hold_ **

 

**_*_ **

 

**_September_ **

The city air was dense, yet there was a briskness to it; it helped remind the inhabitants of New York City that autumn was just around the corner. Sometimes, it would feel as if it wasn’t quite there yet; sometimes, the weather felt too stuffy to call it the beginning of fall. But there was no denying the sudden crispness the morning air had. That surely made one believe otherwise.

Inside ‘ _Bouquet_ ’, however, it was always warm; the tiny coffee shop had proper internal heating, and along with that, the toasty, heavy scent of coffee and other baked goods that wafted through the air always made the cafe comfier. It was one reason why Jean liked working there.

Well, there was one other reason, too.

The cafe wasn’t just a coffee shop, actually - it was a _flower_ shop, too.

Any customer could see the array of flowers arranged outside their tiny shop in neat rows, their naturally-scented petals bloomed open. They were always fresh, hand-picked, and fragrant; Jean loved nothing more than the way the sharp aroma of coffee mixed so well with the subtle scents of velvety petals. They had all kinds of flowers; some were bunched in big, bold bouquets, while the more delicate ones were placed in thin tubes filled with water. Either way, it always gave a bright pop of color to their otherwise plain coffee shop.

What was more cool, was that with every order of coffee or any other accompaniment, the customer would get a flower for free. It would be a flower of their own choice - but they would always get it as a complementary gift. (If anyone wanted more, they had to pay extra, though.) Their manager called it ‘ _an element of surprise_.’

It was just a way of marketing for the manager, and for most of the workers there. But to Jean, it was something a little more.

As he leaned down to give a tiny girl a white rose, he absolutely loved the way her fair cheeks grew red with utter glee. His lips twitched into a smile, when she held it in her chubby hands; it was that happiness that he enjoyed seeing on others - a free flower would surprise them, and when they’d accept it with huge smiles, it felt as if he just made their day. It felt good, because for a moment, Jean felt special - in a really weird way.

“Hey, Jean!” called out his fellow worker. He turned around, to find Connie calling out to him. He was a bald and short man, who was equally energetic. He had been working in that cafe a few months longer than Jean himself had.

He leaned out of the kitchen window, shooting him a big smile. He asked, “We’re goin’ out after the shop closes. We’ll be heading to the bar - you wanna come with us?”

Automatically, Jean shook his head.

Connie sighed. “Jean, you say no whenever we invite you to some place - _come on_!”

“I’ve got some errands to run,” he lied, scratching his darker undercut beneath his hair, “Plus- I’m feeling tired. Maybe some other day.”

Connie was adamant not to back down, but soon did. Defeated, he waved a hand, “Fine - but someday you better come with us!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, nodding, as he returned to polishing the counter top. As he dragged the rag over it’s smooth surface, he reflected on his decision - maybe he should go out with them. Maybe he could have fun with them for once.

But then... He wasn’t sure if he wanted to take that chance.

Jean stared at his reflection upon the counter. With a sigh, he shook his head. _Better safe than sorry_.

When the clock struck 12 of the night, he was the last one to leave the cafe - just like any other night. After double checking all the flowers in their respective vases, and triple checking the lock on the front and back doors, he walked out. As he stepped onto the road, there was no soul to be seen anywhere; all from his far left to his far right, the road was empty, vacant - so much different than the busy streets of New York Jean would get to see in the daylight hours.

Stopping right at the middle of the road, he looked up. He hoped to see a night sky dotted with bright stars, twinkling at him. But he didn’t see any of that; the entire, dark expanse was hooded with grey clouds, covering everything from plain sight. Even the moon was nowhere to be found.

He pouted to himself; he spared another stare, trying to find some star lighting up the night sky, or maybe a crescent-like moon - _something_. He tried, but he couldn’t find anything; everything just seemed... boring.

Sighing, Jean turned to walk back to his apartment, digging fists into his pockets. It was just like any other day, after all.

 

*****

****

It was yet another busy day in ‘ _Bouquet_ ’. What little tables and chairs the place had were almost fully occupied by busy adults, giggly teenagers, and even old people. Jean was manning the register like he normally did, giving customers their orders, and then gifting them a single flower in the end.

He was giving a daisy to a young couple - when he suddenly heard someone cackle.

Surprised, he turned around. There, Connie was the one who laughed; he was quite literally losing it in the kitchen, giggling into his palms like some giddy teenager. Jean eyed him warily; he was sure Connie had grown mad.

When he was done with a couple of more orders, he went back inside. He had to ask, “Um, Connie? Are you okay…?”

Connie nodded in reply, wiping his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, it’s just- just-” he could not finish his sentence, for he began giggling again.

By that time he confirmed that Connie had indeed gone crazy, until another fellow worker interjected:

“We found this new place, called the ‘Giggle Shack’. The name’s stupid, I know - but damn, their jokes are funny as hell,” explained a green-eyed worker, named Eren. He was someone Jean was acquainted with for a longer while; they had spent their entire college together, after all.

“Yeah,” butted in Ymir, a fellow worker - a freckled girl taller than them all, but just as chill, “We went there only once, a week ago - but we’re going out tonight, too. They said there’d be new performers every week.”

“You have to come, man! It’s gonna be awesome!” insisted Connie.

Jean’s automatic reply was almost at the tip of his tongue, till Eren lifted a hand, silencing him.

“You _will_ come,” he demanded, straight-forward, “No more stupid excuses - you hardly ever hang out with us!”

“Yeah,” Ymir countered, “we won’t bite, man. Loosen up a bit!”

Judging his situation, Jean knew he wouldn’t be left alone. The trio that stood before him were manic when it came to convincing him into doing things - especially things he didn’t want to do; once they stuck onto something, budging them off was close to impossible.

Defeated, Jean sighed through his nose heavily.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll go,” was his final verdict.

Connie punched the air. “Alright! Tonight we’ll have some fun!”

Jean had to roll his eyes at that. We better.

****

Soon, the day passed by in a blink of an eye, till Ymir, Eren, Connie and Jean left the shop together.

The place was not too far, Ymir had assured him, for it existed just a few blocks down where their own shop was. Jean was thankful for that much, because in no time, they reached the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’.

As they stopped in front of it, Jean could not hide his amusement; if the name alone had been ridiculous, Jean had something else in store for him.

The words ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’ were etched on a slab of rough, vintage-looking wood, right above a dark brown, plain-looking door. Light bulbs bordered the title, flickering on and off timely to illuminate those words, etched in simple block letters. The walls were colored a bright, pastel pink. Jean cocked his head to one side at the sight; it looked nice _aesthetically_ , but there was no denying how oddly it stood out among the more austere, insignificant buildings close to it. It had no trouble of standing out, as other stores and sites did.

Jean had a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach, urging him that maybe he should have stayed home.

Either way, he sucked in a deep breath. _This has to be worthwhile_ , he thought, as he opened the door.

The place seemed really cramped from the outside, occupying enough space for only a few ten people. But in reality, it was quite the opposite; as he wrenched the door open, he was greeted by a flight of stairs leading them down. Connie was the first to go, and that way, the rest followed. At the bottom, a big security guard, clad in black, stopped them. He asked for the entry fees, with an outstretched hand. Only after paying it were they allowed to walk on.

Below, they were greeted with an area decorated brilliantly; Jean spied simple light-bulbs that hung from the ceiling. They dangled loosely, hovering right above circular tables and chairs placed across the entirety of the room. They lit up the room like stars would light up a black, night sky. When Jean raised his eyes ahead, he saw a stage; it wasn’t big at all, barely covering a quarter of the room. But even there, bulbs lined its edge, lighting up the wooden platform. There was a single stool on it, along with a microphone stand.

 _It wasn’t too bad_ , he had to admit.

The four of them sat at a solitary table at the back. Eren went on to get them drinks, and so they waited patiently. Connie was tapping his foot, while Ymir was busy tapping away at her cellphone. Folding his arms, Jean took the time to look around himself a little more.

The place wasn’t jam-packed, but it wasn’t empty, either; though the seats at the back were vacant, chairs and tables placed nearest to the stage had people in it. Most of them were young, in their prime ages of 20s. They chattered on and on, about things he couldn’t make the least bit of sense out of.

He leaned his chin on his palm, glancing at the stage. From how much Connie laughed, Jean had to think - _maybe this place would actually be good_ . But he had to wait to find out. His friends had talked of some ‘ _new_ ’ performer that would be coming tonight. _I wonder what they’d be like…?_

As his watch struck nine, the lights above them suddenly dimmed, ever so slightly. Eren came just in time, with beers for everyone.

Just as the entire room dimmed, the lights lining the stage grew stronger, till all they could see was the wooden platform. Then, a tall man stepped on, his footsteps echoing even through the distant mumbles of people chatting. Jean was too far back to make out details of his youthful face, but he could definitely make out three really, really distinct things:

  1. He wore clear aviators, rimmed with a bright, pastel green hue;
  2. His black hair were bunched into a man bun, jutting from the back of his head; and
  3. He wore a sweater colored just like the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’ itself.



On normal circumstances, he would have laughed at such an odd combination; who would wear green frames and a pink sweater together? It would have looked crazy.

But on him, though… It almost suited the guy.

That man sat on his stool. He extended a hand, and wrapped his fingers around the mic. Tapping it once, twice, he checked it’s functions. Once, twice, the mic echoed. That caught everyone’s attention. The silent murmurs all fell into silence, waiting.

Coughing twice, the man began, “Hello, folks! I’m Bobby, and I’ll be teaching you guys how to play the clarinet using your nostrils-”

But then he paused in the middle, sudden.

Giggling, he corrected himself, “I’m just messin’ with you guys! I’m actually Marco - Marco Bodt; and _no_ , I do _not_ like it up the butt, thank you very much. I was ready to slap someone if I heard that one more time!”

Jean had to chortle along with everyone at that. _Was he even serious?_

But the comedian continued, lifting a finger in the air, “Though I’m not so skilled in the arts of playing the clarinet in rather _non-conventional_ ways, what I _do_ have, are a few good jokes up my sleeve!”

Leaning down, he grabbed his water bottle and took a sip, as the audience’s laughs died down a little. When they fell into a sudden hush, he - or, Marco - picked up from where he left:

“Now, where do we start! Let’s see… _ah_ , we’ve got a lovely audience here - with people who either have nothing else to do with their lives, or are avoiding their responsibilities like any other normal adult!”

Shaking his head, he carried on, “No, but in all honesty - thank you guys so much for coming here. I promise you guys that I won’t be wasting your money tonight.”

Sighing away wistfully, he began, “Ah, New York. To be honest, it’s been a long while since I last came here. But now that I’m back, I've noticed a few things that make New York… ‘ _New York_ ’, y’know? I'm sure you guys could relate - like how there seems to be a cab _everywhere_!”

When he paused, a few sounds of agreement ensued from the audience. A moment later, he continued, “It’s a little _annoyingly_ convenient, don’t you think? Like, you see two on one road, and the minute you take a turn, you see _four_ more, out of nowhere. You take your kids out for a ride; you’d expect them to play ‘ _count the red cars_ ’, but no, no! They’ll play ‘ _count the taxi cabs_ ’. And when you realize that they’ve gone over 25 already, then you know that there’s a problem here.”

He paused again, as some people laughed joyously.

“You’d think of the first inhabitants of New York to be humans - but no! Taxi cabs came here before we did!”

Eren’s shoulders shook with laughter. Even Jean had to suppress a smile.

“I mean, they’re everywhere!” he said, exasperated. “They’re like freaking flies, buzzin’ all over the place! Only New York’s got as many cabs as there are flies here, let me tell you that. It’s crazy!”

He got a bout of laughter for that. Jean chuckled along, surprised by how true he was.

“But hey, New York’s not that bad,” he stated, shrugging, “I mean, almost the entire population loves coffee! Anyone here who loves coffee?”

Almost the entire audience lifted their hands, some hooting playfully.

“Y’see?” he said, laughing, “almost everyone likes coffee. You know you see those posh people, walkin’ down the street, with their cellphone in one hand and the other one holding this _ridiculously_ overpriced mug, filled with coffee, like this-” He stood up, and swaggered across the length of the stage, one hand curved around an imaginary mug, while he quirked his eyebrow playfully. Everyone laughed at his accurate imitations, as he explained:

“They might be poor as shit, but not when they've got coffee - ‘cause it makes them look cool!”

He then stood, holding his mic in his hand, “It's not even a preference of drink, anymore. It’s a way of life! You go ask someone, ‘ _Hey, what do you like?_ ’ - and what will their first answer be? ‘ _Oh, I like coffee_ ’. Like geez, that’s not somethin’ that’s gonna get you _laid_ , lemme tell you that.”

Ymir threw her head back in laughter, along with everyone else in the room. But he didn’t stop there:

“It’s crazy! And what’s weirder? People get offended if someone doesn’t like coffee! Like, they’ll just go-”

He stopped his speech, to make an expression so sudden, shocked, and taken aback, with his eyes blown wide and mouth open in offense. Jean couldn’t help it; he spluttered, laughing out loud.

“They’ll go, ‘ _Are you serious? How can you not like coffee!_ ’” he whined dramatically, “I've actually met people like that! Like, since when did drinking coffee become necessary to be accepted in societal standards? That’s just dumb! Like now what, will we have two different sects on this?”

Rubbing his chin with his finger, he thought out loud, “God, what if _civil wars_ start because of this? What a way to start a World War! I mean, imagine the things that would be written in the history books, a 50 years from now: ' _2015-2017 - the Anarchy Of The Coffee-Lover_ ’, or ‘ _14th January, 2018 - the Tea Revolution_ ’.”

The entire audience dissolved into a fit of giggles, and Jean joined in, too.

Like that, the ever-clever Marco Bodt spent a whole hour cracking jokes right off the top of his head continuously, about everything and anything. The whole time, the entire audience laughed till their chuckles dimmed out any other kind of noise; his jokes had gotten them so bad. And they caught Jean the _worst_.

The entire time, he couldn’t stop chuckling at the little jibes and jokes he made, all on his own. They were so original, so real, they made his sides hurt from laughing too much. The longer he sat there, the more he felt light, warm, and at ease. It was like a feeling he’d usually get whenever he’d enter the ‘ _Bouquet_ ’, working in the confines of a place isolated from the busier world outside. But then again, this feeling wasn’t quite the same. It wasn’t too major to call it anything - and yet, it was _something_.

It made him smile, despite himself. He could get used to that.

But time flew by in the blink of an eye; soon, time was up.

Staring at his watch, he professed: “Oh well, look at that! I managed to waste an hour of your lives so easily!” Sighing dramatically, he asked, “ _Damn_ , how do I do it?”

As the audience laughed at how proud he sounded, he stood up, and said, “Well, I think I should wrap this up before you guys burst a lung - I don’t wanna be charged with an accidental massacre again!”

Smiling widely, he stepped towards the edge of the stage. He said, “I’ll be coming back next week; and you never know - I just might end up teaching you guys how to play the clarinet in a totally original way!”

Laughing brightly, he bowed deeply, and then saluted the crowd.

“Thank you guys _so much_ for enjoying my presence! It’s been an absolute pleasure! I am the infamous Marco Bodt - _have a good night_!”

The entire place broke out in an applause, cheering the young comedian on with thumps on the table and loud claps. Marco bowed again, thanking everyone over and over. Despite how far he sat, Jean could definitely see how proud he must have felt - and rightfully so. He couldn’t recall the last time he laughed that much.

Even as the four of them walked out of the place, back to their respective houses, Jean was wiping tears of mirth out of his eyes.

“Well, well, Jean can’t seem to stop smiling!” judged Ymir, ruffling his blond hair, “ _That’s_ not something you see everyday!”

Jean was too busy swatting her hand away, until Connie exclaimed, “ _Call the reporters!_ ”

He ran ahead, stopping at the center of the silent, empty road.

“We just got the biggest breaking news!” he continued loudly, flailing his arms in the air, “This just in: _Jeanbo actually smiled!_ ”

He could not have rolled his eyes harder than he did then.

“ _Har har har_ , Connie!” Jean had to call out. He should have expected that much from his co-workers, who were too busy making fun of him and his rather ‘ _long emo phase_ ’.

Soon enough, in the midst of a war of jibes and insults in the dead of night, Jean spied his apartments from afar. With a sigh, he told them, “I gotta go now. Thanks for the night, guys.”

“No, no,” Eren butted in, “Thank _you_ for not saying ‘ _no_ ’ this time!”

“You forced me in this,” he deadpanned.

“But you don’t regret the decision, do you?” Connie interjected playfully, looking at him with hopeful eyes. _Well, he couldn’t actually argue with that._

With a few last waves, Jean trudged up to his apartments. When he was just two blocks away, a soft gust of wind blew through the city streets. It made him stop - it was colder than what he’d felt a few days ago, crispier, too. He shivered in his leather jacket.

Subconsciously, he stared at the night sky. Half of him knew he’d only see a blank, dull night sky - but he was greeted by something different.

If he knew any better, the clouds had thinned just a little, revealing more of the gaping emptiness of space beyond. It was still too dark to see anything else - but he could have sworn he saw a glimpse of twinkling stars.

__  
  


*****

****

Since then, Jean had been going to the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’ every week. Usually, he’d get to go with his friends, enjoying a good laugh with them. But some days, they’d be busy. Some days, they’d have to rush quickly - most of the days, they just grew bored.

“We’ve been there _six times_ already, man!” Eren complained one day, when Jean was insisting on going there again. “We know that that Marco-guy’s gonna be there! How many times do you have to go, now?”

“If I knew any better,” Ymir judged, as sly as she could be, “looks like Jeanbo could be liking that guy!”

Jean spluttered, his face heating up.

“I- I do not!” he cried out, trying his best not to let the tips of his ears to turn red - a feat in which he failed.

Ymir was too busy laughing it off, while Connie spoke from the counter, “If you wanna go so bad, you go yourself!”

Jean pondered over that. _I could go by myself_ , he thought. _I do nothing at home, other than lazing off. I should; it’s gonna be more fun!_

_Though it’ll be a bit lonely…_

Sniffing, he nodded to himself.

That day, he went alone - for the rest of the days ahead, he went alone. And it turned out to prove more joyous that way.

Sometimes, when he’d sit at a table alone, he’d begin to feel that crippling loneliness. But thankfully, it would always vanish whenever a clever person manned the stage, and cracked jokes right out of thin air.

Marco Bodt, the stand-up comedian proved to be a hit. The number of people that came to the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’ to watch him seemed to grow in number by the week, till getting a free seat became a challenge of it’s own; there were some days when the entire place would be jam-packed, and sometimes, late-comers had to stand at the back for the whole show.

But no one seemed to have minded; everyone enjoyed the comedian’s skill at making people laugh so easily, with fun one-liners, punch-lines, and expressions that made Jean snort. His jokes were so original, fun, and about the vaguest of things - and yet, they were understandable, and downright hilarious.

“So September’s ending soon,” he noted once, strolling across the stage casually, “And then it’s October! A lovely month, it is. Y’know, I’ve seen two kinds of people in my life: one kind, that call October ‘ _October_ ’, and the other kind that call October ‘ _Halloween_ ’.”

Jean giggled, when he continued, “You go ask them, ‘ _Hey, what’s the day today?_ ’ and they’ll just simply go, ‘ _It’s Halloween_.’

“And you’re confused, so you ask, ‘ _Um, but it isn’t that on the 30th?_ ’ And they’ll just shake their head, in total disbelief! They’ll be like, ‘ _no, no, it’s Halloween, you're wrong! Go learn your dates again!’_ ”

The entire room had fallen into laughter again. “These kinds of people are always so intense when it comes to Halloween, it’s actually _alarming_ ,” he continued, “These people are the kinds of people you have to stay away from on October, because they won’t let you live without cracking Halloween puns - I mean, don’t get me started on all those kinds of jokes I’ve come across!”

Everyone chuckled, as Marco groaned on the stage, massaging his temples aggressively.

“Like, I just wanna converse with someone like a _normal_ person, y’know? A simple ‘ _hello, how you doin’?_ ’ can suffice! But no, they wanna go and tell me I’m ‘ _BOO-tiful!_ ’ Or they want me to have a monster’s favorite dessert - ‘ _I-Scream_ ’! And I’ll just stare at them like, ‘ _Really? You wanna go join the dark side?’_ ”  
He had made a plain face that was drenched in so much disinterest and boredom, Jean chortled into his palm; it was always the kind of face he would make to counter Connie’s lame Halloween puns and jokes.

****

After a few more weeks, Jean grew more accustomed to going there alone. He liked the isolation he’d feel there. It wasn’t disturbing, or lonely, anymore. The room was always warm, and brightly lit with so many yellow light bulbs. Plus, that warmth he felt there the first time he visited that place grew stronger; it was something he commonly felt there now.

Besides, on his own, he could take his time and notice more details about the strange comedian. There was one piece of detail he was amazed he never noticed before:

He had _freckles_.

And not just a few - _a lot_. The first time Jean saw them, he had to gasp; he had so many freckles, speckled across his cheeks in thick clusters, while they strayed loosely around his arms. The way they scattered so haphazardly over his face - it was odd, yet fascinating.

He had grown to learn new things about the strange comedian every week; one time, he learned how he liked pastels ‘ _more than is healthy_ ’; the next time, he learned how he always got lost in Walmart whenever he’d go there ( _“That place deserves a freakin’ spot on the world map!”_ ), and much more - he even learned how Marco seemed to love flowers:

“I’ve always loved flowers!” he had told the crowd one day, “But to some people, it’s irritating. Why, though? I never understood!

“Like, so many people have tried roasting me about it - mostly girls. Like, they just look at my hair and go, ‘ _Um, are you a boy?_ ’” he said, in a falsetto, girly voice. It earned him a few giggles, before he recovered, and said, “And I just stare at them like they just discovered _China_.”  
Jean burst into laughter, and more so when he continued, with wide eyes and a voice dripping with sarcasm, “No way! How did you- How did you make that _ground-breaking theory!_ That’s some Nobel-prize-worthy shit right there!” It made Jean lose his breath by laughing.

“And I just go, ‘ _Girl, at least one of us is rockin’ our hairdos!_ ’”

Everyone around Jean laughed, as he went on, “Like, what’s the matter with you? Why would you assign gender roles on such stupid things? Let girls do what they want! Let boys do what they want! It ain’t rocket science!

“And if anyone here is kinda sexist in that forte, I just wanna let you know: go outside, pet a dog, and chill; because the fucks people should have been giving have just freshly run out of stock - so go get a move on!”

Jean couldn’t recall the last time he laughed so much that he had to wheeze. He was wiping little tears of mirth out of the corners of his eyes, when he made eye contact with the comedian - Marco.

That one didn’t feel random; it didn’t, because that day, Marco smiled when their eyes met.

It could have been an eye contact that lasted for half a moment. But this one felt longer, it felt deeper.

Jean couldn’t stop laughing - or smiling - that entire day.

****

 

**_\---_ **

 

**_October_ **

****

October rolled on, marking its entry with strong winds, cloudy days and cool nights. The few trees that did exist had some leaves that blushed a deep orange, an earthy brown, or even a tinge of gold that glinted in the sunlight. The month finally brought about the season of autumn - and the people had realized that; most of them huddled themselves in their thick coats, guarding themselves against the oncoming autumn wind. Even Jean was eventually forced to wear a thicker coat whenever he left his apartment for his job - half of the time, he would be cold to the bone.

On a cold, random morning of October, he opened up the coffee shop for another day of business. Opening the back door, he went in and started setting up all the tables and chairs in their respective orders. Once he was done with that, he began carrying delicate bouquets of flowers from their pots and stands inside, out onto the racks lining the shop outside.  
The crisp wind washed over him when he stepped out. As he hugged his coat around himself tighter, he stood on the empty pavement for a moment; he could feel every bit of summer heat escaping from around him, leaving a chilliness behind. Autumn was true, and had arrived fully.

Slowly, he wrapped each bouquet of flowers in a brown paper, and placed them at their places. Without even realizing, he began smiling while spritzing their scented petals with water; he liked that part of his job - tending to the flowers. It gave him a few peaceful moments to just reflect on them, and notice how a member of nature could look so beautiful on it’s own. What was more amazing was how it had the power to make any stranger’s day in the blink of an eye.

The trail of thought stuck in his mind, even when he was done setting up all the flowers on their stands. But he didn’t go inside straight away. He just stared at the flowers a little longer, tracing their patterned petals with his eye.

It made him think of how people could be like that. What if they could? Did such amazing people exist? Who, as random as they could be, could make someone’s day - or life, even - special, just like a flower?

Could he be like a flower to someone?

His answer was interrupted with another gust of wind.

It made him look up. He was met with a pink sky, just like bubble-gum. What was more fascinating was how there wasn’t even a speck of cloud, or any sign of the Sun. How on Earth could the sky look so pretty on it’s own?

The sky, those flowers before him… To think nature could be so special…

Could people be just as special? _Could I be that special to someone?_

He pondered over the thought, till he heard a few birds chirp above his head. That brought him back to Earth, back to reality. It made him laugh at himself;

 _Like that’ll ever happen_ , he chided to himself, before making his way back inside.

****

After a long while, the others came; first a grumpy Eren, then a pissed-off Ymir, and then the rest. Last of all, came the ever-sleepy Connie - same as ever. By the time all of them were donned in their uniforms, the shop was finally open for business.

The first few guests trickled in, taking their orders of dark, black coffee on the go. They were given their respective drinks - but not without a flower of their choice.

With smiles, waves and swiftness, they handled all their incoming customers. As noon rolled by, the customers started coming in big clusters, wanting to stay in the cafe for longer. They were treated just as well; giving them a bigger table, they were given whatever they ordered, with whatever flower they wanted. The hours went by slow, and work inside all the hustle of the little café tired Jean easily. But the thing that revived him every time, was the smile he’d get for giving people flowers; their happiness had made Jean want to work extra-longer. And so, he didn’t let himself slack off while ordering and presenting people with their menus, food, or flowers.

The sunlight was streaming thickly inside the little coffee shop, as the afternoon dragged on. Jean was wiping his forehead when he heard Ymir yell from behind him:

“Hey, Jean! Get these coffees out for Table Number 4, right over there, could you?”

He guided his line of sight towards where Ymir pointed - right at the table next to the front door. He spied three girls there, chatting with one another cheerfully.

Jean could practically hear her smirk, “You can thank me later, Kirschtein.”

“Shut up-”

“ _Pfft_ \- I always forget you’re into _dicks_ -”

“ _Ymir_ , there are people here!” Jean hissed at her, which only earned him a hearty chuckle from the freckled girl. All she did was pass three steaming cups of coffee to Jean.

He accepted them with a grim face. Sighing, he placed them on a dark tray - right beside three white, delicate daisies. He then slid out of the counter, tray in hand.

“Oh, you forgot the tissues!” said Ymir.

Cursing himself, Jean turned around, reaching for the tissues on the counter with a hand. Without even looking ahead, he turned-

-and walked right into someone.

With a yelp, the both of them shouted. The tray in Jean’s hands wobbled - and before he could grip it tighter, it fell from his grasp.

Tumbling, it crashed against the floor wetly. Hot coffee fell on his hands, and Jean started hissing at the steam. The people around them gasped at the sight - annoyingly so. When he looked at the bitter chaos pooling around his shoes, he felt his heart sink. It sunk more so when he saw dark coffee staining the once-fragile daisies he’d picked for the girls.

He was ready to snap at the person who did this, even if it wasn’t their actual fault. But when he looked up at the culprit, he stopped.

His eyes blew wide when he spotted a pair of mint-green spectacles, and a mass of freckles. _Is that-_

“O-oh my,” the man exclaimed, shaking his head, “I’m so- I’m so sorry! _Ah_ , I didn’t mean that to happen! _I’m so sorry_!”

“A-aren’t you from the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’?” Jean found himself spluttering out. If someone were apologizing to someone, asking their occupation was not something that made sense. But he still asked, even when it was obvious-

“U-uhm, _yeah_ ,” he said, unsure, “Yeah. Yeah- I go there weekly, the name’s Marco Bodt.”

Jean must have made a completely shocked expression, for the comedian only squinted.

“Y’know,” he said slowly, “normally, I’d be getting a beating right now, for ruining things this bad.”

Jean couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips by default - it made Marco do the same, albeit a little nervously.

“Ah, no, no,” he denied in reply, bending down to pick up the soggy daisies and tissues, “It-it was just an accident. No biggie.”

“W-well, but still,” Marco interjected. But instead of continuing, he bent down and started helping Jean pick up the mess.

“You don’t have to-”

“Hey,” Marco cut in through Jean, “It’s the least I can do.” He completed himself with a tiny, apologetic smile.

When he extended his hand to hold the tray, Marco brought in his own to do the same - and their hands brushed for the tiniest of moment. He could feel his heat, despite the warm coffee covering his skin.

“R-right,” Jean ended lamely. Wrenching his gaze out of his deep brown eyes proved to be quite the feat.

Thankfully, the other customers stopped staring at the pair. After an even grumpier Eren mopped up the floor (muttering darkly as he did), Jean went on to serve the girls their orders again, this time with apologetic smiles. They had been slightly annoyed at the delay - but were equally surprised when Jean threw in double the amount of free flowers.

When Jean returned back to the counter, Marco Bodt came in again at the counter, asking, “You get flowers here for _free_?”

He asked it with an intensity of a child asking for presents - it made Jean smile cheekily.

“Well, yeah. It’s a policy here, to give a free flower with every order someone makes,” he explained.

His eyes blew impossibly wide. “Is this place _real_?!”

Jean laughed, confirming his statement with a deep nod. Then, he asked, “Would you like to order anything?”

Marco laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I- I well, I don’t know much of this place. I’m new here.”

He had had many cases like that. Jean knew what to do.

“Okay,” he said, plucking a spare menu card from the counter. “What would you want- coffee, maybe?”

He made a curdled face at that. “Ugh, I’m not a fan of coffee,” he said, “Hm, maybe tea?”

“Sure! We have an excellent cup of tea, with chocolate.”

He nodded enthusiastically, saying, “You’ve got my money!” The motion made his hairbun behind his head bob with each twitch - it was comical.

Laughing, Jean noted the order down, “You got yourself a deal, then!”

As he passed it on to Connie, back in the kitchen, Jean found Marco squinting at him again - this time curiously.

“If I recall well,” he studied, “I think I have seen you in the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’, sitting in the audience.”

Jean felt heat creep up his neck. He suddenly recalled their eye contact. He didn’t notice that, did he?

He continued, with a finger pointed at him, “If I knew any better, I think you came to every show of mine!”

Jean looked at his hands, clasped in one other anxiously upon the counter top. “W-well, I sorta did. They’re funny, and just- amazing to watch.”

He didn’t hear Marco say anything. He was half-afraid he ended up saying something that might have been a little too creepy for such an awkward first meeting.

But that wasn’t the case, not when he peeked up.

The comedian - or, Marco Bodt - only looked at Jean, with a tiny, tiny smile. Even a tiny blush dusted all over his cheeks. It was then that he saw all the freckles on them, just as thick as they had been the first time he saw them. But seeing them up this close - it made him itch to study them all over again.

Even with his glasses, the intensity of his stare irked him, as he felt even more heated. There was this depth to it, like uncharted waters, places he himself could never hope to see or understand himself. It made him wonder aloud:

“Um, is something the matter…?”

That made him snap out of it. He shook his head, looking down. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, saying, “No, no, it’s nothing, sorry- and- and thank you.”

Jean couldn’t find words to return his comment, so he returned the same smile he gave.

Just as quick, his order was ready. Marco was ecstatic; he took the steaming Styrofoam to-go-cup in his hands, and took a tentative sip. The hum Jean heard from him made him sigh in relief.

“God,” he sighed, “That’s what Heaven tastes like.”

Jean chuckled, “Well, thank you! Oh, and now it’s your turn to pick a flower!”

His mouth turned into an ‘ _o_ ’. “ _Any_ flower?”

“Any flower!”

“Damn, I love this place already!”

Jean chuckled at him, when Marco poked his tongue out in thought. After a second, he clicked his fingers- and then rushed right out of the shop.

Jean was positive he had simply ran away, until he saw him emerging in once again - but this time, with a single, light pink rose.

“This one!” he professed, “It’s so pretty; pastels and flowers - two things I love, all in one!”

Jean smiled at him. He took his flower, and started prepping it up, tying a white ribbon on its stem. For conversation’s sake, he said, “Well, you made that clear in your acts.”

Marco smirked. “Wow, _someone’s_ attentive!”

The comment made his ears burn, but he quickly covered it up, saying, “W-well, what can I say? You’ve got a fan in me!”

When he was done, he held the flower out to him. When Marco grabbed the stem too, their skins brushed again.

A pause ensued, that felt like forever. And then, Marco broke it:

“Do you have a name?”

“Uh- yeah, it’s Jean. Jean Kirschtein,” he answered, as he let go of the flower.

“Well, Jean,” he said, nodding, “So sorry for messing the place up earlier - and thank you for the order, a-and this flower!”

“Any time!” Jean promised, “We’ve got a lot more than that!”

Marco was at the door when he heard that. Tucking the rose behind his ear, he saluted at Jean, just as he did before finishing an act.

“I’ll be holding on to that, now!” was all he said, before stepping out of the store.

As if a draft was let in, Jean felt a shiver run through him. The stillness that accompanied him later on was enough to let him get back to his senses. Shaking his head, he returned back to earth. It wasn’t long before he was back to finishing off orders, like normal.

But this time, he couldn’t stop smiling.

****

*****

****

The days that came next were just like all other days Jean had ever lived: go to work, serve people, rest - and then repeat.

But this time, something else changed those once-monotonous days - or rather, _someone_.

Ever since their chanced meeting, Marco Bodt had been coming to the ‘ _Bouquet_ ’ almost everyday. Everyday he’d arrive with a big smile on his face, and everyday he’d order something new. “Give me your Chef’s favorite!” he’d profess, whenever he’d come.

With a shake of his head, or even with a tiny laugh, Jean would serve him something different everyday - sometimes he’d try chocolate-flavored tea, spiced chai, or even a lemon cake. Every time he’d try something new, Jean was greeted with a content sigh or a hum of appreciation. He almost felt smug about it.

However, that wasn’t the only thing he tried everyday. Everyday, Marco also tried picking totally random flowers; one day, he’d pick the boldest of red roses, while other days, he’d choose the more timid, fragile lilies. His choice would always be different - but the smile he’d break into would always be the same.

“Why do you like flowers so much, if I may ask?” Jean had to ask, once, while handing him a little daisy with his cup of iced tea.

Accepting it, he laughed nervously, “Ah, well - who wouldn’t?” Looking down at the white flower in his hands, he began tracing its petals with the tip of his finger.

“I don’t know, but… but they’re like gifts from Nature! They make anyone smile for no reason - either if their loved one gifted it to them, or maybe they saw a few in some park - it’s- it’s amazing, isn’t it?”

Jean stared at him for a while. He had the same opinion of them as he did - that was just some coincidence, right?

All of a sudden, he started shaking his head, pushing his glasses up his nose the way he did whenever he was nervous. “Okay, I just sound dumb, now-”

Jean found himself cutting his speech before he could think of it twice: “N-no, you’re not dumb! I mean, that- that makes sense, actually; how flowers can be special to- to anyone...”

Had he said too much? Would that creep him out? It definitely felt like that. His mind was a nervous wreck, until he noticed Marco just... looking at him.

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He shook his head ever so slightly, as if he were amazed, shocked: “Yeah… But I have to ask: anyone who's ever heard me say that tells me I’ve gone bonkers. How come you don’t say that?”

Jean cursed himself when he felt his hands grow sweaty already.

“ _Uhm_ \- it’s - I mean, you’re being honest,” he tried explaining, “Why would I make fun of that?”

Again, there was that damned pause, that moment when everything grew still - all except his stare.

Jean was half sure there was something on his face, until Marco said, “Well, that's- that's a relief to hear. Thank you.” In the end, he smiled a simple, honest smile.

With a few last words of parting ways, he left the shop. He assumed everything else would fall back into normalcy, until Eren was walking past him - but then stopped, squinting at him.

“Are you... _blushing_?” he asked unsurely.

Jean’s eyes blew wide. Was he? He thought it was the coffee steam that heated him up.

“Well that’s ‘cause Prince Charming came along, again,” judged Connie, from the kitchen.

“That’s not it, Connie!”

“Are you sure, Jean? ‘Cause last time I recall, no ordinary customers come in the same café, and talk with the same waiter almost every freaking day!”

Jean spluttered. What was he going on about? How could he come to ‘ _Bouquet_ ’ for a reason as stupid as what Connie was implying? It sounded ridiculous!

He rolled his eyes, and was ready to clean the few empty tables, till he heard Ymir chirp from afar:

“Oh, he’ll ask him out, someday - I can feel it!”

Jean suppressed the urge to groan and shout at the same time - that was not going to happen!

He wiped the white, marbled tables clean, till he could see his reflection. When he did, he sighed, at one thought:

_Why would he go through all that trouble, anyway?_

****

*****

****

“Alright, time to pick your flower!”

“ _Aha_! The best part of the day!”

Jean chuckled, as Marco pressed the tip of his finger on his chin, thinking of what flower to pick with his muffin.

“I think I’ve picked every flower there is, over here up till now,” he whined, shuffling on his feet.

Jean quirked an eyebrow at him. He bit back a smirk; Marco stood on his shuffling feet, trying to pick a flower like some toddler picking out his favorite toy. There was no lie to that - he actually did love flowers. There was also no lie to something else - that there were no flowers left that he hadn’t picked before.

 _That can’t be_ , he thought to himself, as he bit the inside of his cheek. Lost in his thoughts, he started staring at Marco; his hair were open for that day, flowing freely halfway down his neck. They framed his brown eyes, high cheekbones - and...

When his eyes landed on his cheeks, he was glad he was studying him.

“Hey, I think I’ve got a flower for you,” he said, and without any form of reply from Marco, he went back inside the kitchen.

Dodging busy workers, he made his way through the kitchen, into the storeroom - a storeroom full of all kinds of flowers. It was where they kept their florals for the night, and brought in new ones that had ran out or were the season’s new entries. Upon entering it, he was met with a wave of fragrances, meshing with one another so brilliantly - it smelled like a perfume shop all on it’s own.

He went in, diving straight into a wooden crate, labeled with ‘ _New Arrivals_ ’. A tongue poking out of his mouth, he sifted through them all, trying to find that one flower Marco hadn’t gotten ever. _It must be here-_

When his fingers grasped it’s supple, green stem, he grinned.

When he came back outside, Marco seemed positively confused. “Uhm, I hope everything’s okay-”

“I’ve got a flower for you!” he cut in, holding it out to him.

When his eyes landed on the flower he held, his eyebrows quirked in curiosity; it had orange, pointed leaves that bloomed open. But what was more fascinating was how it had so many little black spots on it, scattered across its petals randomly.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s- It’s a tiger lily,” Jean explained, “I forgot we even kept them, but- but your freckles reminded me of it.”

It was moments later that he realized how creepy that sounded. _Good God,_ he thought, _who would say that?_

He was regretting his choice of words terribly. But all Marco did was smile.

“Wow…” he said, shaking his head, “You surprise me every time, Jean.”

Laughing to himself softly, he accepted the flower from Jean. But he made no move to say good bye, or wave, or even remotely leave. He just stood still, fixated, just staring at him.

Jean tentatively asked, “Is- is everything okay-”

“I think we should hang out!” he blurted out in a hurry.

Jean’s breath momentarily left him. _What?_

“Come again?” he squeaked.

Marco sighed through his nose. “I-it’s just- we only get to talk a few minutes. I’d like us to spend some time, just chatting. If-if that’s okay with you!”

He must have looked bored, for Marco started stuttering, “I’d totally get it if you’re busy- or you don’t wanna come along, or-”

“I’d love to,” Jean replied silently. He was surprised his voice wasn’t shaky - despite how much of a mess his insides were.

But then it clicked: he scratched his undercut lamely, as he mumbled, “But I don’t know about my job...”

“Don’t worry about that, Jean!” he heard someone from behind him cry out. His heart sunk; _no, not today, not now, not in front of him-_

“You sure? I wouldn’t wanna disrupt anything,” Marco said, to one green-eyed idiot of a friend - Eren.

“Of course!” Eren cooed, leaning out of the kitchen window. “Connie can cover his shift for a day- can’t you, Connie?”

“Wait, what do you-” was all he was allowed to say from the kitchen, before Ymir came in:

“See? He’ll do it!” said she, throwing an arm around Eren’s neck, “Besides, Jean needs a break - he works too much to be called healthy!”

Jean was deciding whether to seethe in anger, or to dissolve into a puddle of mush there and then. He could have given an arm just to vanish for a moment or two-

“O-okay, then!” said Marco, looking back at Jean, “Is Saturday okay? I know this neat place we could go. So could I pick you from here? At 4?”

“Well, yeah! That’s- that’s great!”

“Awesome,” he grinned. “See you then! Toodles!”

And with that, he left the café. But just as he left, Jean spied him staring at the flower in his hand, with a smile plastered on his face. The moment made his heart stutter for a second.

That blissful moment vanished just as he heard his three devil of friends speak together:

“ _Told you!_ ”

****

Jean had to ignore their googly eyes, mushy dialogues and other wretched teasing talks for the entire day - but there was no denying how his heart was hammering in his chest, at the thought;

Someone was actually interested in talking with him. Someone actually wanted to hang out with him. The thought made him smile like a goof for the entire day.

****

*****

****

“Is he there yet?”

“Okay, I bet he’s comin’ out _now_!”

“Dude, he didn’t ditch you did he?”

“Don’t you guys have any orders to do?” Jean snapped at them angrily.

He was waiting on the footpath, right outside the front of their shop, waiting patiently for his hang out - with Marco.

The thought still set his nerves alight. To think someone as bright and clever as Marco wanted to spend time with someone like Jean… It felt unreal.

But his friends were there to remind him that it was indeed reality. And they did that - _annoyingly so_.

The whole day, Jean was working in peace - until the clock struck four; that was when his friends had made him drop everything he was doing, and pushed him out of the store, to wait for Marco to come. He would have been thankful for all the worry and care they were showing - he would have, if it weren’t for them constantly making stupid comments and hollering teasings that only made him get even more anxious. Connie couldn’t stop giving him tips on how to kill flirty comments, while Ymir forced him to dress nice, put on some perfume, and most of all - “ _stop slouching!_ ”

Eren was the only one who was somewhat gentler on his soul; he was spritzing the flowers outside the shop with some water quietly, minding his own business - but even that didn’t stop him from glancing at the busy street before him, asking, “Where is the guy?”

“What if he’s ditched you, though?” Connie piped from the shop; he, who had practically pressed his nose against the glass.

Jean could only seethe: “Shut up, Connie.”

But it didn’t fail to light a spark of doubt in his mind. What if he was true? The pavements were busy, thick with people walking hurriedly from one place to another. The cars on the road were even more dense, as they whizzed by in honking clusters. He would have understood if Marco got late because of the traffic; but what if he had just ditched him?

As he tugged the sleeves of his black crew-neck sweater over his hands, that spark threatened to engulf him entirely. He was on the brink of it, until Eren sang from behind him, in a very, very amused voice.

“ _Well, well, well!_ Guess who’s comin’ over!”

Jean’s eyes snapped to his right. They blew wide when they spied Marco.

_Oh, good God._

He didn’t come over by foot. He didn’t come by bus, or by any car - he came over to ‘ _Bouquet_ ’ on a _bicycle_.

“Hey!” Marco called out, cycling up close to park right at Jean’s feet.

He wore a plain, full-sleeved, white T-shirt, over a pair of faded jeans, ripped at the knees. His hair were free from below, while the hair on the crown of his head was bunched into a tiny bun.

Jean was still out of words - even more so when he noticed how the bicycle itself matched Marco’s glasses. _Is this guy even real-_

“U-uhm, hey!” Jean said, after finding his voice.

“So, you’re ready?” Marco asked from his seat.

Jean nodded. “Yep!”

“Great!” Marco smiled. “I hope you don’t mind the… ah… mode of transportation.”

Jean chuckled at his sudden nervousness. Regardless of how odd it seemed, he said, “It's okay, man. Really.”

“Thank you. So, hop on!” he insisted, patting the seat behind him. Jean was worried about two things:

  1. of falling off of the bike, and
  2. at how close that seat was to Marco.



He didn’t know which problem was the bigger one.

“You won’t fall off,” Marco insisted, laughing.

_Well, you ticked that one right off._

Gulping dryly, he pondered over the lack of choice he had. Finally, he sat himself on the tiny seat, his legs on either side of the bicycle. Holding the metal rigs behind him, he could already feel Marco’s heat - _fuck_.

“You okay back there?” Marco asked.

“Y-yeah,” Jean replied.

He humphed to himself, as he bent down a little. “And here we go!” he proclaimed, pedaling the bicycle ahead. And before he knew it - he was riding a bicycle with Marco Bodt.

Jean couldn’t imagine having to live such a moment; not only was he sharing a bicycle, he was sharing one with a comedic icon. It was insane - who got chances in their lives to do that?

He also couldn’t imagine how much of a sight the two must have been looking like to other people. As the pair whizzed past people and cars alike, he caught more than a few stares - some teasing, others just plain amusing. He didn’t know which was worse.

As time rolled on, Marco pedaled on through the city streets. He expertly dodged cars and buses, till even Jean didn’t fear falling off. Gripping the sides of his seat, he spared a glance at the busy world around him - a world he had tried to shut out many times.

It was a world he never really enjoyed; it was a world he found suffocating, fake, disturbing. It was a world with too much heartbreak, and not enough happiness. But as they crossed a red light, he saw kids playing hopscotch on the pavements. Beside them, he saw an old couple sharing an ice-cream sundae under the sun. He saw people smiling at their cellphones - he actually witnessed _happy_ people.

For once, he caught a glimpse of a world that didn’t seem so fake. For the first time, it felt real.

It made him smile; as he felt the cool air run through his hair, he couldn’t help but enjoy that weird moment. The thought made him grin despite himself; it was insane, to share a bicycle with someone in such circumstances; to smile at random things he’d seen before; to truly notice the world around him. It was insane - but then, it was… _fun_.

On the way, Marco rode over a bumpy road. Riding over a crater made Jean lose his balance. He almost fell over, until he held the first thing he could get a hold of - Marco’s waist.

When his fingertips felt his heat, he instantly regretted that move; _great job_ , _Jean_ , he thought, _as a blush crept up his neck, what a way to make him think you’re creepy._

But what he actually ended up saying surprised Jean:

“You can hold on, y’know,” he said, his voice soft, yet could be heard over the wind. “I don’t bite.”

 _Yeah. This is normal; this is_ normal _, Jean._

Gulping, he gripped his waist tighter. He shouldn’t be feeling this nervous. He was a friend. Friend’s did that. So why was he blushing so much?

Thankfully, their ride ended, when they stopped at a tiny, pop-up cafe. On such a sunny day, no sight was as perfect as what lay before them; on the silvery pavement, there were wooden tables and chairs. There were a few people seated at them, while most were empty. He noted how bunches of pretty, yellow flowers were placed on every vacant tabletop. Their bright petals contrasted so well with the dark, ebony tables. It was simply magnificent.

“Wow,” Jean had to breathe, as they got off the bike. “How come I’ve never seen this place?”

“These guys open this place up randomly,” Marco explained, as he leaned his bike against the far wall. Locking it’s tires up, he continued, “Most of the times they’re in the deeper parts of New York. This must be the first time they’ve gotten here!”

Jean nodded to himself. Together, the two moved on towards the little cafe, where they were greeted by an aged woman, with greying hair and a floral apron. She gave them a motherly smile, and guided them over at an empty table. Giving the two their menus, she left them to do their thinking.

Jean had to let Marco know that he knew nothing of this place; when he did inform him that, however, Marco didn’t mind at all. He just gave a big smile, and convinced him to try their double chocolate cake, with whipped cream.

When he told the waiter of it, he only ordered one plate. Confused, Jean asked, “Um, wouldn’t that be less for us two?”

“Oh, trust me,” he breathed, “One’s _more_ than enough - you’ll see for yourself.”

Blinking, Jean left the thought at that. When the waiter promised their order soon, Marco leaned his forearms against the table. Sighing, he said:

“So - now that we’ve got a real chance to talk more… Tell me something about yourself.”

_Wow, talk about random._

“W-what?” he asked.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he echoed, “Just ‘cause we’ve been hanging out at the coffee shop doesn’t mean we’re… well acquainted with one another, hm?”

_Well, if you put it that way._

Shaking his head, Jean mirrored his posture, asking, “Okay, then; what do you wanna know?”

“Anything!” he answered.

Jean cocked his head in thought. _Anything? What should I say? Where should I begin?_

“This is confusing, man,” Jean complained.

Marco rolled his eyes with a cheeky smile. “Okay, I’ll start,” he said. Sitting up, he pointed a finger at himself, saying, “I’m Marco Bodt.” And then he turned that finger at Jean.

_What game is he playing…?_

Catching on, Jean said, “I’m Jean- Jean Kirschtein.”

Again he pointed his finger at his chest. “I’m 25 years old.”

The finger turned at him. “A-and I’m 24…?”

“Oh, just a year’s difference!” he said excitedly, before pointing at himself again, asking, “Okay… my favorite animals are cats. Yours?”

“Dogs,” he answered, when his finger motioned at him.

Marco’s turn: “Hm, and… I hate coffee.”

Jean’s turn: “I love it.”

Marco groaned, “Ugh, you’re making it hard for me not to screech!”

Jean, however, smirked at his work. “Oh, c’mon,” he pouted comically, “At least I’m not telling you how _vampires suck._ ”

Marco stared at him silently. Then he squinted oh so angrily:

“Did you just-”

“I had to!” Jean said, laughing out loud, “I’m so sorry!”

“Shit, man- not you too!”

But Jean was too busy laughing to even reply or retort to him, giggles escaping his lungs before he could catch them.

(When he was done, he had to act as if he didn’t notice Marco staring at him, with a tiny smile. Maybe it wasn’t real - maybe he was making it up.)

Soon enough, they carried their little game of questioning on, longer than the two of them had even intended it. But none of them minded. Jean knew he didn’t; it wasn’t everyday he’d get to find out so much about that freckled comedian - no matter how small they were. He learned how he loved desserts, how he liked cycling way more than driving cars, how he was a ‘shitty’ cook, and could ‘ _microwave like a pro_ ’. He found out about the things that annoyed him; halloween puns, mean people, cold water in the shower, and when he had to do his chores. It was in no time that they moved on to the deeper things they liked;

“So,” Marco sighed happily, “is it- it’s my turn? Okay, okay- um… Damn, I bet you could write a book on me-”

“Shut up and ask!”

“Okay, Grumpy! Hm… Okay, I like making people laugh.”

When his finger pointed at him, Jean paused unintentionally.

Marco urged, “It’s your turn; tell me something you like doing, something that- that makes you feel happy.”

But he still wouldn’t say anything - more like _couldn’t_ . His voice had gone somewhere, all that comfort that blared in his chest now receded into the pit of his stomach, cold, cowering. His mind grew blank at that question; what did he like to do? Anything about him that made people feel happy? Something as noble, as simple, as real as what Marco shared? He gulped dryly; _say something-_

“Hey,” he said, softly, “Anything you like doing? Something that makes you feel special - makes you ‘ _you_ ’?”

 _Say something_ , he screamed in his mind. He tried combing through his mind, picking something he could reply. But there was nothing, nothing that made him who he was; what was he, then?

Lamely, he ended up spluttering, “I- I don’t think I have somethin’ like that.”

Marco’s eyebrows knitted in worry; he was about to say something, just about to butt in, when their waiter came in, placing their order out on their table.

Jean sighed in relief - but it caught up his throat when he looked down on their plate.

Wow, Marco was right.

Their dessert wasn’t big - it was _humongous_ ; it had at least five layers of a thick chocolate sponge, with just as thick layers of chocolate cream. The entire slice was covered with a chocolate glaze on it’s own - and top of that, a big dollop of white, whipped cream.

Jean gulped at the sight.

“I told you so,” answered Marco, in a voice equally amazed.

Soon, they began feasting upon their food. He couldn’t lie - despite how daunting it looked, it was delicious. He hummed at every little nibble he ate of a soft sponge, and creamy chocolate filling. It was enough to forget everything around him for a moment, forgetting the entire, bustling, busy world around him, as sparks of culinary euphoria danced on the tips of his taste buds.

Well, it was enough for Marco to forget about what happened moments ago, too.

He listened to Marco’s hums and noises of surprise at every morsel of dessert he ate, but his mind was in a place far, far away. It was silly for him to worry about something as childish as having nothing to share. But he still did; it was this nagging tug in his mind, and it screamed only one thing - that he had nothing to him.

Others had intents that were as pure as crystals; other had hearts of gold; others were kind, were generous, thoughtful - _something_. Everyone else was something, something special. Jean feared he was anything but. Jean feared letting Marco know he was anything but a somebody.

“Could I ask something, Jean?” Marco asked, all of a sudden. His voice was like a bang within silence; it cracked his state of reverie, bringing him back to Earth.

Blinking, Jean replied, “Yeah.”

“Why would you say you’ve got nothing that you like doing?”

Jean closed his eyes. He had to drop the bomb.

 _You’re being unreasonable_ , Jean cursed himself. Just- just say something. Anything. He wouldn’t even care, anyway.

Taking in a deep breathe, he began, “I-it’s not as if I’ve got nothing- but… I don’t know how to say it…”

He paused, trying to find some words, something that he could make up.

Marco took the moment to say something, in a soft voice: “If you don’t wanna talk about it, it’s cool. You don’t need to force it out.”

He should have denied the offer. He should have shaken his head, smiled- laughed even, and explained how he just had a nervous fit, nothing else. He should have made himself seem like someone who could take anything.

But he didn’t; instead of doing what he had hoped to do, he just nodded. He smiled at him apologetically, cowardly, and resumed picking at his food like nothing ever happened.

Soon enough, they resumed their regular chat, falling into a comfortable flow all over again. It helped Jean evade his broiling thoughts in his mind, instead focusing more on Marco, and his jokes, jibes, comments, likes, dislikes - it helped faze out everything else.

He was… _glad_.

****

They ended up staying there long after they had finished their food. They ended up talking till the Sun sunk under the edge of the horizon. They ended up laughing at nothing and everything, and they ended up enjoying their time together more than either of them expected to.

Once Marco paid and tipped the waiter well, they went off. When Jean seated himself on Marco’s bike once more, he noted just how long they stayed; the sky that was once bright with sunlight, was now anything but. The sun was long gone, and nothing else remained but a dying, purple sky. A cool, autumn wind still ran through the city, calling in the entry of the night. It made Jean shiver, making him hold Marco’s waist tighter than before.

The streets changed, too; what was once filled with people was now almost empty - all but a few passersby and cars remained. Jean usually liked the stillness silence brought. He usually enjoyed the empty city, free from any kind of noise or presence. But for that moment, he missed the crowd. For that moment, he yearned for all that New York bustle again. It was strange how suddenly he remembered it all - for what reason, he couldn’t understand.

In no time, Jean was brought back to the ‘ _Bouquet_ ’. It was still alight and open, but the people inside had clearly lessened; it was close to call it a night, after all.

With a happy sigh, Jean got off. “Thank you so much for an awesome day,” he said. He never sounded so honest.

Marco smiled up from his seat. “Thank you for coming along! It was great - I hope we get to meet up more! Um... which reminds me-”

He stopped himself suddenly, pulling out his cellphone. That caught Jean’s surprise.

“Could we share our numbers? It’ll be easier to- to contact each other. We could hang out again, too!”

 _Damn, this guy’s unreal_. Without any reluctance, Jean and Marco swapped their numbers there and then.

“Great! Thanks!” said Marco, as he pocketed his cell phone. “So, I’ll just head home, now… Take care, Jean!”

“You too, Marco,” he said, before he turned around.

Jean’s hand was outstretched, reaching for the doorknob, until he heard Marco speak up:

“Hey, Jean?”

He didn’t say anything. He turned around, giving Marco a questioning glance.

Licking his lips, he pushed his glasses up his nose. Almost nervously, he began, “You don’t- you don’t have to think that you’ve got nothing worth sharing. Everyone does - it’s… it’s what makes people want to live, don’t you think? I bet you do, too.”

Jean could say nothing. His voice was gone once more, down that nervous spiral all over again. Clenching his hands into hard fists, he nodded. But in the end, he smiled, and croaked two words that made sense, and that he meant with all his heart:

“Thank you.”

Marco didn’t say anything this time; this time, he only smiled widely.

With yet another cheeky salute, he rode off. As he turned into another road, he began whistling a tune, a tune that rung through the empty streets of New York.

Jean didn’t remember standing outside in the cold for so long. He didn’t remember having stared at his receding figure till he was gone. All he remembered were his words, his precious words - and one thought: this guy can’t be real.

****

 

_\---_

 

**_November_ **

****

The month of November began with cold mornings, and even colder nights. It reminded the inhabitants of New York that autumn was on the brink of its time, and that winter was finally breaking in.

Jean could almost taste it’s near arrival, whenever he walked to the cafe like every other day. The once faint-crispness was now the only thing that persisted in the wind. It would turn Jean cold till his bones, but not when he geared himself up in a thick coat, and an even thicker muffler. Other than the change of weather, nothing else seemed out of place; everything else was just the way it used to be.

Well, not quite.

There was no denying that something had definitely changed, but he wasn’t sure what, exactly; he walked to his job, worked till the night, came back, and then repeated it all the next day. Once a week, he would go to the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’, and the other days he would work - like he always did. It was all the same, really. Yet, it _felt_ different. Something always felt out of place; was it in the air? Or was it inside himself?

Whenever he’d think on the latter, he would laugh at himself; how could something inside of him shift so suddenly? If it had, he would have realized it! If it had, he would have known - no matter how measly the chance seemed.

But when he’d catch a glimpse of a bright, freckled smile, a glance of big brown eyes framed with mint-green aviators, a sight of a man who liked making people laugh - all it motioned to was the latter.

Jean wanted to groan at the thought. This couldn’t be it, could it? He couldn’t have been the reason he felt somewhat… different. Marco could not be the reason for the shift he had felt. He couldn’t have started growing feelings for Marco.

But whenever he heard one of his jokes, he’d laugh more than he should. Whenever he heard his laugh, he’d smile more than he needed too. Whenever they’d say farewell to one another, his heart yearned for him more than was necessary.

It all motioned to the latter.

Jean knew things like those always ended bad. He knew it seemed all fun and games in the beginning, but would end in total failure not too late. He knew unrequited feelings were common, and they were destructive - more so, when he’d realize that the prospect of someone like Marco wanting someone like Jean just seemed… impossible.

The thought would hurt, sometimes. But he could not do much, could he?

He could, however, minimize the pain; he could control it, so that he wouldn't have to hurt too much. It was the least he could do.

It was a day such as that, when the two friends sat inside a warm, cosy little cafe quite far from where Jean lived. Through the bicycle ride, the cold wind that blew around the city froze Jean to his core. It had earned him a lot of timid ‘ _sorry_ ’s from a worried Marco, but he couldn’t say anything; he was shivering too much to even try.

When they had entered the shop, however, the wave of warmth made him sigh audibly. It was enough for him to melt there and then into a puddle. Marco saw the relief he showed, and laughed along.

But Jean had noticed how… tight it sounded. It sounded nervous, almost.

When their orders of steaming hot chocolates, with whipped cream on top came to them, Jean took the chance to ask, “Hey, is everything alright?”

Marco’s eyes snapped up at him a little too quickly.

“Y-yeah! _Pfft_ , of- of course I am! _Heh_ , w-why would you say that?” he stuttered.

Jean didn’t say anything; he gave him one simple look, drenched in one simple phrase - ‘ _are you kidding me?_ ’

Marco definitely took the bait; his chest deflated as he sighed. Jean was surprised with how stressed he suddenly looked; he took his glasses off, rubbing a hand over his eyes. As if the entire world were placed on his shoulders, he sagged against the table, before explaining himself:

“I- well… it- it isn’t much, but- but I’ve got this new gig, up in the Maria Hotel, deep in the city. Its- its really, _really_ big- and they wanna see how I do there. And it’s amazing enough I got the chance, and now- I just- _God_ , forget it-”

“Hey, hey,” Jean cut in. Without thinking, he grabbed his wrist, and held it tight. It caught his attention; slowly, Marco looked up, biting his lip worriedly.

“Say what you wanna say, Marco. It’s okay. It’s not stupid of you or somethin’, so go on; I wanna help.”

Something flickered in Marco’s eyes. Jean thought it was the dim lighting of that place - but was it something else?

Nodding a little, Marco continued, “It's just- I’m nervous. I don’t wanna fuck this up - and I’m terrified I’ll end up doing just that.”

Jean felt like grabbing his shoulders, and shaking him hard, because why would he say something like that? How could he say something like that - when he could crack such amazing jokes right of thin air? How could he say that, when he was so fucking amazing at what he did?

Jean couldn’t do that - because his hand was still around his wrist, his skin so warm.

But instead of wrenching away like he would - like he _should_ \- he just gripped it tighter, warmly. He had to convince him otherwise, he had to give him some confidence. But how?

Then, with all the honesty he could muster, he began:

“Marco, if there’s one thing that my friends know about me, it’s that making me laugh is the hardest thing to do.”

That made Marco look up - it was a glance of confusion, but stuttered, when Jean completed himself:

“And when I went to your show, you made me laugh till I couldn’t _breathe_.”

Squeezing his fingers daringly, he continued, “So don’t think you won’t do great, Marco. You’re- _amazing_ at making people laugh. You’ll do great!”

When Marco’s lips twitched into a smile, Jean smiled back, and his chest inflated with delight. When Marco’s eyes glimmered, it felt as if someone just burst his bubble.

_It’s something you want, but you can’t have._

It made him curdle into himself. Quickly, he wrenched his hand away, cursing himself for how his fingertips tingled even moments later. _Make this easier on yourself_ , he urged, _please_.

It hurt. But what could he do?

Nothing. He could do nothing.

Shaking his head, he lifted his hot drink, and took a tentative sip. The sweetness was enough for him to forget everything for a moment.

What brought him back was a giggle.

Oh, Jean knew who that was.

He squinted at the freckled man in front of him. “What?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, but- I’ll show you.”

And then, Marco took a large sip of his own drink - and came back with a white, foamy upper lip.

“You look like _this_ ,” he claimed, with a smug grin.

He wanted to glare at him. Mostly, he just wanted to wipe his own upper lip, but he ended up laughing at how dumb and cute Marco looked. _Even in a foam moustache!_

It made Marco laugh too, as he tried to cover up his chuckles. When the two were done with their fit, Marco challenged him:

“Let’s see who can keep up this fabulous upper lip the longest - in _public_!”

“Oh, you’re so on!”

****

In the end, Marco won - as usual. He had poked his tongue at him teasingly the whole time, calling for ‘ _a celebration_ ’ to ‘ _commemorate his victory!_ ’

Jean had rolled his eyes at that - but he didn’t mind the loss. It gave him enough time to revel in his iconic laughs. In the end, it wasn’t a total loss.

****

*****

****

Marco wasn’t lying when he said that his opportunity to perform at the Maria Hotel was a big shot.

Performing there was like ‘ _doing a circus act in Heaven_ ’, as he had put it for Jean. It was a prestigious offer to walk up the large stage of the five-star hotel - and just as daunting for any first-timer, like Marco himself.

Despite how scared it made him feel, Marco was adamant to make the most of his shot; he wanted to take that opportunity he got, and turn it around for his taking.

“Getting this chance alone is big,” he had explained once, over brunch, “A lot bigger, considering my age. I gotta make it count. Besides, if I do good, I might get a chance to get to perform in Chicago!”

Jean’s breath stuttered for half a second. “Chicago?”

“Yeah!” Marco answered, “That place is my chance to make it big out here; this place is great, but the audience isn’t as big as what’s in Chicago.”

Jean tried ignoring the way his heart sank oh so slightly at that one thought - of a possibility of Marco leaving for good.

 _Keep your selfish wishes to yourself_ , he told himself. He stuffed his sunken feelings deep in his heart, kept it all to himself, and tried giving Marco a smile of assurance.

It was due to how big his shot was, that he had to call his daily meet-ups with Jean to a hiatus. He had done so reluctantly, but he had to plan his entire act all by himself; it would be too much of a burden for him. Jean understood that, and so he accepted his decision. However, Marco had assured him that he would not lose contact with him entirely.

Jean didn’t expect him to fulfill his promise so well.

In the upcoming cold weeks of November, Marco texted him at least twice a day; sometimes he’d complain about how badly he wanted to sleep, while other times, he’d talk about how his planning was going okay. Most of the times, he asked how Jean was doing.

He would always reply the same - _I’m good_ . And he was; he was doing good, working in the shop like always for the entire day, handing out orders and flowers to customers like a pro. It was all a part of his life; he was used to it. Even so, there was always a part of his heart that stuttered whenever the doors of the ‘ _Bouquet_ ’ would open, expecting a freckled man to come up - it was also the same part of his heart that sank whenever he’d see someone else coming in.

But he couldn’t tell that to Marco. So Jean always gave the same reply every day - _I’m good._

Sometimes, Marco threw in a few snaps of himself on Snapchat. It would always, always be a selfie of himself, usually pouting in dismay. The most common captions had been, “ _I’m tired_ ”, or “ _Take me away, please_ ”, and even “ _look at me procrastinating!_ ” As much as Jean found them endearing - and plain cute - he could not let him slack off too much. That was why he always replied back with bad, Halloween puns - and threatened to send him more until he started preparing for his act again.

The days rolled on, until only a week was left till his show. On that day, the sky was white and cloudy. Jean was given an early leave from work, which was why he sat on his bed, lazing off like he normally did. It wasn’t until the clock in his tiny house struck 6 o'clock, when his cellphone vibrated beside him.

He made a grab for it way quicker than was necessary. But he knew who it was from - he had an idea.

When he unlocked the screen, he instantly smiled.

 **_From Marco:_ ** _help me_

His phone vibrated twice more when two more messages popped up:

 **_From Marco:_ ** _ive got my entire act learned by heart  
_**_From Marco:_ ** _yet i feel like screaming_

He bit his lip cheekily. Hunching over, Jean punched in his reply:

 **_To Marco:_ ** _why dont u sleep?_

 **_From Marco:_ ** _i cant - im too excited_

 **_To Marco:_ ** _ok, how about u read a book?_

 **_From Marco:_ ** _cant - im too nervous to focus_

Jean rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the thought of a whiny-Marco, clutching his hair, or banging his head against his table repeatedly.

 **_To Marco:_ ** _how about i send u some halloween puns to make u happy?_

The reply he got next wasn’t even a breath late:

 **_From Marco:_ ** _do u have a death wish? :)_

Jean threw his head back in laughter, enjoying his comically threatening reaction. Sighing, he thought of ways to help him; that show mattered to him. It was a make-or-break moment for his entire career. And even if the chances of him leaving New York were great, even if the chances of him staying with Jean were too slim, he couldn’t wish for something Marco didn’t want. Jean was nothing - but at least he wasn’t selfish.

In thought, his eyes trailed outside the window. He saw grey, bleak buildings masking any view of the world beyond. The world and it’s inhabitants were busy down below, Jean knew; going places, moving from one place to another, meeting new people. It made him think of how humans were such social creatures, always the ones to move ahead, forward, forward and forward. Stopping was never an option; it would be noted as a weakness.

But what if all someone wanted was not to stop just to look back in regret - but to look around themselves, enjoying the view? What if all someone wanted was to stop time for a while, stop _doing_ \- and just exist for a while. Maybe there was a meaning to living in that.

Jean would have liked to do just that. Trapped in his apartments, he wanted nothing else but to look outside, and stare at something other than blank buildings he had been seeing all his life. He wanted to see something other than that; he wanted to see something bold, colorful, vibrant, something full of life. He wanted to see something different, alive.

Just then, a text came in:

 **_From Marco:_ ** _the sky’s rlly pretty rn_

 **_To Marco:_ ** _i cant see it from my house :(_

 **_From Marco:_ ** _???  
_**_From Marco:_ ** _u leave the house right now, young man, and u look at the sky now._

 **_To Marco:_ ** _but im lazy :(_

 **_From Marco:_ ** _NO BUTS infact im coming to ur place right now_

Jean’s eyes grew wide at that. He was coming here?

 **_To Marco:_ ** _Hey hey hey whats the rush??_

 **_From Marco:_ ** _look. i wanna make u see the sky. thats it. final._

The finality of his message made Jean blush unconditionally. But even so, he didn’t go without a fight:

 **_To Marco:_ ** _cmon u dont have to come all the way to my house!_

 **_From Marco:_ ** _funnily the ride is rlly not that long. Gimme 10 min and i’ll ring u!  
_**_From Marco:_ ** _and NO buts. i need a break, and i havent seen u for a while._

Jean leaned back against the wall. He covered his face with his palm, sighing. God, this man wasn’t giving him much choice.

 **_To Marco:_ ** _fine, fine! We’ll go to the roof if u want, ok?_

****

His reply came exactly ten minutes later:

 **_From Marco:_ ** _guess who is here :^)_

Despite being told to do something he didn’t want to do, he smiled at the text like a total dork. God, was he falling for him or what?

Slipping his feet into his boots quickly, he plucked a purple, woolen sweater from his bed, and wore it over his shirt. He ran fingers through his blond hair hurriedly, trying to make his appearance somewhat good, till he turned around, and left his house.

He didn’t notice how he took two steps at a time, as he ran down the dim stairs. Half of him thought that it was going to be some prank - but the other half was what made him that excited; it was that part of him that made him believe in something else.

It was the same part of him that made him smile, when he caught sight of a white beanie, worn by the ever-infamous Marco Bodt, who waited patiently at the apartments’ entry way.

Jean did not come to him; instead, he brought two fingers to his mouth, and whistled at him, catching his attention right from the stairs. Just as swiftly, Marco caught on, as he turned around to stare at him. The way he smiled made Jean’s breath hitch - he didn’t know he had missed him that much.

He approached him quickly, stopping when there was just a step’s difference between the two. From there, Marco was shorter than him, so he had to tilt his head ever so slightly. In other cases, Jean would have smiled smugly at the instance, but for that time, he was a bit too enamored by it - by _him_.

“Hey,” he greeted, rocking on his heels.

“H-hey,” replied Jean, smiling softly.

After a pause, Marco urged on, “So, let’s show you the sky, hm?”

****

The walk up was tiring, but the burn that Jean felt in his legs was nothing compared to how ecstatic he felt, having finally met Marco after a long while. It wasn’t only that, however; Jean was also excited to look at the sky, as a chance to appreciate nature, appreciate something other than monotonously grey buildings. It was made even more special when he realised who he was sharing that moment with.

Finally, their descent finished, when he saw a large, metallic door blocking their way. Jean glanced at the knob, and sighed in relief; thank God it wasn’t locked.

“Okay, let’s do this!” Marco piped up from beside him, as he pushed his glasses up his nose. His hair bobbed around his jaws, as he practically vibrated with energy - it made him laugh.

Marco pouted at that. “Less laughing, and more action! C’mon!”

Rolling his eyes, Jean muttered a hushed _'dork_ ’ under his breath, before wrenching the door open.

He was met by a cold wave of air, slamming into the pair. Jean shivered, bones jarring at the frigid coolness of the atmosphere around them.

“Hm, _someone’s_ not taking care of themselves!” Marco judged like a mother.

But before Jean could even turn to look at him, he felt something warm and fuzzy rest over his entire head.

When he looked at Marco, he realized that he gave him his own beanie.

Jean felt as if he was going to melt there and then - despite how freezing it was outside.

“You’re gonna get a cold,” he explained timidly, “I’m warm enough, so…”

Jean might have swallowed his own tongue, because he couldn’t even mutter out a single word. He was trying hard not to notice how even his freaking beanie smelled like him.

Finally, though, he coughed out a word: “T-thanks.”

With a smile, Marco nodded. And then, the two of them walked on, out into the open. When Jean looked up, he gasped.

The world might have looked grey and bleak from his house, but the sky was anything but.

Across the entire expanse of the sky, there were countless of colors clashing with one another so artistically; up above, Jean made out shades of blue as deep as ink, that slowly bled into hues of purple. When the sky progressively inched towards the horizon, the clouds got thinner, and the colors somehow brighter; just where half the sun hid behind the edge of the world, he spied pinks and oranges, yellows and reds so bright they seemed unreal. It felt as if some artist had strewn their colors out across a blank canvas, creating an entire masterpiece.

It was a masterpiece of it’s own - _but who could have painted it?_

“Wow,” Marco echoed from beside him, his voice hushed and gentle, “to think this is all natural… It almost looks like a-”

“A painting, made by the Universe,” Jean completed for him.

He hadn’t even registered his own speech. He hadn’t even realized Marco asking, “What makes you say that?” His tone wasn’t teasing, or amusing - it was kind, and honest. It made a something hitch inside his chest.

Jean answered in any way he could: “I don’t know… it just- _feels_ like it. I mean, it looks.. it looks bigger - more important, y’know? It makes you feel happy, right?”

“Yeah…”

Jean laughed a little, breathing in the cold air. “It makes me happy, too. The sky’s always been pretty, but this… this has to be the work of the Universe, right?”

Marco didn’t reply for a while. Maybe he was lost in thought - like Jean was, lost deep within the pale streaks of white clouds, blending in with the brilliant colors that the world showed him. It made him feel happy, alright; it made him feel special, to have gotten the chance to watch something like this… He felt even more so, when he realized with whom he was sharing that precious moment with.

All the people below him, Jean felt sorry for them; they were too busy moving ahead with their lives, trying to do too much in too little time, trying to do things they only cared about halfheartedly. They should have stopped for a while, like Jean did. They should have paused for a while, to catch a glimpse of the works of the Universe - because not everyone could see it. Not everyone could enjoy it; not everyone could get chances in their lives, where time would slow down, just so they can enjoy the view of _life_ for a while.

It felt damn right special.

Just then, Marco said, “Hey, Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“Could I ask something?”

“Yeah.”

A pause ensued; Marco said nothing - until:

“Why couldn’t you… why did you stutter, when I asked you of something special about you?”

He didn’t imply anything else, and yet Jean understood what he was talking about; that first meetup of theirs, when Marco had asked something about him, and Jean had stuttered, stumbled, and failed to answer.

Jean sighed through his nose slowly. Looking behind him, he spied a wall. Walking back, he sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall. Marco was mirroring his posture, when Jean hugged his legs to his chest, resting his chin on his knee.

He sighed again. Then he licked his lips, as he tried to reply:

“It- it wasn’t anything big, but… but I don’t what got into me, back then. You’ll just think I’m crazy-”

“I _won’t_ , Jean,” Marco insisted, sitting a little closer. “I won’t - you’re being honest, after all. I won’t judge that.”

Jean looked at Marco. He respected his honesty - he really did. He deserved an explanation. Clenching his fists tightly, he looked away. In a hushed, tight voice, he resumed:

“Well, it’s just- I tried thinking of something in me, that makes me special, something that makes me ‘ _me_ ’, but- but I couldn’t think of anything.

“Then, it just- it just sorta _hit_ me: that this entire world is filled with people - people who’re doctors, engineers, leaders, rulers, winners - they’re out there doing something they love, doing something that makes them special- makes them unique. And then, there’s me; someone who can’t even think of something they like…”

The pause that ensued on was punctuated by nothing other than the soft gust of wind that blew over the two. It was cold, but Jean couldn’t feel it. Hugging his limbs tighter, he completed himself:

“Back then, I blacked out. I just- I stumbled, ‘cause I was frightened - frightened to realize how... _insignificant_ I am.”

Marco was shaking his head beside him: “No, Jean, that doesn’t make you insignificant-”

But Jean looked back at him, and cut him off: “How? How does it not make me unique? How will brewing coffee and handing people flowers make me special - a _somebody_?”

His voice had grown snappy itself - he never meant to lash out like that. But he felt angry - at _himself_ , mostly. He cursed under his breath, leaning his head against the wall. He slid his eyes close, and inhaled deeply. As he exhaled, he saw the brilliant piece of art above him. He tried staring at it deeply, letting it comfort him to some extent.

But then, he heard Marco speak from beside him:

“Jean, you think what you do isn’t special?”

That made Jean’s tawny eyes snap at Marco again. But his eyes were trained at his own, freckly hands. After a pause, he explained:

“Think about it; first, you serve people treats - and then you gift them flowers, out of surprise. And they love it! They love how they didn’t even ask for one, and yet they got a pretty flower - and _you’re_ the one who hands them out. Think of all the people you’ve tended to; you made them all smile. Doesn’t that make you special to them?”

Jean was reminded of the little girl he once gave a rose to; he was reminded of all the strangers he had given flowers to. He remembered all the smiles he got, as random as they were. He remembered how happy he himself had felt back then, to have been special to them, even if for a tiny moment.

There was no wind, yet Jean shivered. “Why are you telling me this?” he whispered.

Marco took a while to reply. After staring at his hands, Marco met Jean’s eyes. He was smiling at him gently, as he said, “The Universe can make people as random as you and me smile right now. It can make us feel content, happy, fulfilled - the Universe’s special that way; and it might think it’s not. It might believe what it’s doing is nothing more than a duty - but either way, _we’ll_ always think the latter, right? Wouldn’t we be like the Universe in that sense? We’ll never believe we’re special, when really… There will always be someone we’re special to.”

Jean looked at him, confused. Marco got a little closer, so that their shoulders touched one another's. The heat seared Jean, as Marco continued:

“I’m telling you this, because it’s true; this world has many people in it, Jean. There are famous people that change the world; there are great people that fight battles and get power from it all. They’re what everyone calls ‘ _gifted_ ’, or ‘ _special_ ’. People who don’t do much are just seen as failures. But… That doesn’t mean they aren’t special at all.

“They’re special in smaller ways; they won’t ever do something great, they won’t ever grow bigger than the Universe - yet, they can change the lives of the people they love. _That’s_ what makes them special, even in the eyes of a few!”

Then, Marco looked up to the sky once more, smiling softly.

“You might not think you’re great, Jean. But you’ll always be special to someone - be it all the people you’ve gifted flowers to, or your friends. _I_ think you are.”

Those last words Marco spoke were what hit him hard. What he said, it was so simple, so subtly put together, and yet - yet, it meant the entire world for Jean.

His voice was clogged in his throat. He couldn’t speak, not yet. He turned away again, staring at the sky for longer. He noticed how the sky had grown darker than before, dominated by dark shades of blue and purple. The sun had sunk down low below the edge of the earth. As he stared at the thin line, he rolled those words of his around his mind; to think the Universe, as vast as it was, could think it’s nothing more than a dutiful worker. But it could do such wonders… Why would it think that way?

‘ _Wouldn’t we be like the Universe in that sense?_ ’

When he recalled those words, he looked at Marco again. He was still staring at the sky, but Jean was too busy staring at him; with his eyes, he made out the contours of his high cheekbones, his odd glasses, his long hair that framed his sharp jaw, his pointed chin, his rounded nose, his lips, his skin, spotted with freckles - and his deep, deep eyes.

When he drank the entire character of Marco Bodt, he realized something; he realized how hard he was falling for him. He realized that anything he was feeling was way more than a crush.

_Damn you, Marco; you’re making me fall in love with you._

****

*****

****

The day had finally arrived - Marco’s big shot at going to Chicago, out on the big stage.

Jean had promised to go with him so when the clock for the day struck 5, he had gotten out of his usual black apron, and donned his thick, dark brown coat, to ward off the intense cold. He left the place with eager grins and jests from his friends, and was greeted by Marco, who stood at the edge of the pavement.

When he turned around, Jean had to suppress a gasp; he looked so simple, in a plain, mint green crew-neck sweater, and dark jeans. _God, even his frames matched his sweater-_

“I don’t look stupid, do I?” he suddenly asked, before even a simple hello.

Jean laughed at his nervousness, shaking his head. But then, it was justified; it was a big day for him, after all.

“No, no,” he denied, “you look… nice.”

He didn’t care if he sounded creepy - because it was the truth.

That seemed to have convinced Marco, for he smiled in reply.

“Thank you,” was what he said, “and- and so do you.”

Nodding, Jean huffed, clapping his hands once. “So, you’re ready?”

To that, Marco gave a big, big smile. Though it made Jean’s chest grow heated already, he could not help but notice how… tight it seemed.

Jean shook that thought away from his head, instead focusing on Marco, who explained how they wouldn’t be travelling on his bicycle for the day.

“The ride’s really long, and I’m not crazy I’ll ride a bicycle through the whole city,” he told him, as they walked side by side, “so we’ll take the bus, instead.”

Their walking led them to a bus stop, when they spotted a somewhat empty bus standing next to it. Quickly, the two of them stepped on it. Looking around the spacious vehicle, he was glad to see that there were only a few people inside; there were two men that sat at the front, an old woman sitting in the middle, and beside her, a teenage girl, chewing gum quite enthusiastically.

Giving them one glance, he looked back at Marco. He ushered them to sit way at the back. Jean was even more glad that there wasn’t anyone at the back, either; the whole row of seats was empty - just for the two of them.

(His damned heart skipped a beat again.)

Like that, the ride was long, yet peaceful. All that could be heard was that constant rumbling of the bus, as it passed through the streets of New York, diving in deeper and deeper into the heart of the city. The only other noises that punctuated the silence were the hushed conversation of the two men, and the frequent noises of the girl popping and chewing her gum.

Jean leaned a little, to look outside the foggy window; as it rumbled on, he could notice how the sky began to dim, the sun vanishing from sight to call it a day. The world outside seemed to slow down as well; as the day slowly gave way to night, lesser people began to appear on the roads. He saw streets and alleys so empty he was afraid that no one even lived there.

The bus stopped twice; once, to drop the two men, and the other time, to drop the old lady and the youthful girl. As the bus got empty once more, the burly driver asked Marco of their destination; “ _the Maria Hotel, please_ ”, he had said clearly. And with that, the bus sped on, and the silence fell thick again.

But those were the only words Marco spoke through the whole ride.

Otherwise, the ride was just… _silent_.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, or anything. It was even peaceful, to an extent. But still, anyone could tell how nervous the freckled comedian seemed; the silence he would usually finish with witty jokes and warming smiles now persisted on with nothing. Whenever Jean spied him, he’d only be biting his lip, worrying the flesh between his teeth. He’d keep on opening and closing his hands in his lap. Every little joint of his body seemed to be lined with nerves so intense, one could see him practically vibrating with it - and it didn’t suit him at all. The Marco Bodt he knew was confident; the Marco Bodt that sat beside him was anything but.

He itched to ask him something; he yearned to nudge him, prod the problem out of him, because seeing him like that only served to worry Jean more. He wanted to hear his upbeat voice again, a voice he had grown to adore as the days passed on - but he did not know how.

(It frustrated him, to think that Marco was suffering like that all on his own - and that Jean had no damn clue on how to fix it.)

It wasn’t until a time that felt like forever, that he felt the bus stop. The driver then announced, in a Texas drawl: “Here you go, boys: the Maria Hotel.”

When Jean looked outside the window, he gasped.

The Maria Hotel stood tall and proud, facing the main road ahead with an elegance and grace only a five-star hotel could show off. It’s white walls gleamed by the street lamps, even in the night. It’s clear windows betrayed well lit rooms, going up higher and higher, way beyond what he could see from his seat.

It definitely looked like a big shot for Marco.

After they had paid their fee, and got off the bus, the pair of them took a moment of their time to just pause, and look at the hotel before them. The revolving doors were still, for the two of them. A gust of wind blew. Marco shivered.

“You’re ready?” Jean asked slowly. He expected a reply - maybe a nervous one, if not an energetic one. But he was met by silence - dead silence.

When he turned to look at the taller friend, he saw how pale he suddenly looked; he was half afraid he wasn’t even breathing, with how gaunt he looked. His eyes perplexed, and his lip quivering - he looked so afraid of those revolving doors, it seemed alarming.

Daringly, he grabbed his shoulders, and turned him around, to face him.

“Hey, _Marco_ ,” he stressed, shaking him up a bit. “You’ll do fine. Like I said, you’re- you’re amazing at what you do. You’ll do great! You’ll be okay... and besides, I’ll be rooting for you!”

That seemed to have finally made him blink. When he did, his expression suddenly shifted - what once betrayed blank fear now reflected emotions, so pure and raw they made Jean’s insides melt right down his core.

For a moment, he thought he’d end up crying - before Marco pulled him in a bone-crushing hug. For a second, Jean couldn’t breathe - firstly, because his lungs were being flattened by Marco’s chest, and secondly, because he was undeniably, really close to him and good God their chests were touching, and his arms were around him, and who knew he was that warm-

“Thank you,” were the words that broke his state of mild panic. It made him stop, and consider his words for a moment, before he continued:

“No one- no one’s ever helped me this much. S-so, thank you, Jean. A lot.”

His words tickled his ear, and he smiled into his shoulder. Quickly, he hugged him back, holding his waist tight. He thanked him with such honesty, as if he just saved his life. He didn’t do much of anything - did those words mean to him that much?

Nevertheless, he was afraid that moment would go away soon, that moment in time when all he could hear, smell, feel was Marco Bodt. He never ever want it to end.

(But it had to. He knew it did. _You can’t have him, remember?_ )

So just as soon, he extracted himself away from his warm embrace (but he didn’t leave before digging his face into the crook of his neck, and inhaling his scent selfishly, pathetically.)

When the two of them had recovered, Marco straightened his crisp sweater. He inhaled once, and then exhaled. Inhaled, and exhaled. And then he walked inside.

When they entered the Maria Hotel, the both of them stared at the place at awe. Extravagant was a small word; the reception was big, wide, and extremely well decorated. The walls had beautiful paintings pinned on it, showing landscapes made by strokes of brushes and paints. The ceiling was adorned with a huge chandelier, encrusted with crystals, made so delicately, Jean was afraid it would fall.

Their footsteps echoed across the clean, marbled floors. Marco looked around the place, and approached the receptionist there. He asked directions for his stage, and the kind man gestured to his back, pointing at large black doors, beyond which he explained that only ten minutes remained before the show would begin.

Quickly, the pair of them made their way towards the hall. Upon entering it, they were met by a bustling crowd, circling around round tables, just like he had seen back in the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’. But before he could appreciate the atmosphere around him, a big, burly man approached them, all in black, and motioned for Marco.

“All participants gotta go back stage,” he explained, as he called Marco towards him. But before leaving, Marco gave Jean a determined nod; Jean returned a grin, and a loud “Knock ‘em dead!”, to which he gave a heartwarming smile.

As he disappeared into the crowd, Jean spared another glance around himself. It was then that he realized that he was probably under dressed for the occasion; around him, he saw upper class men and women, donned in evening wear so fine and sleek he knew they cost a few hundred bucks. The ladies laughed in their shrill voices, while the men talked in deep-set, accented voices, some of them even smoking for the event. It made Jean want to cower before them all - but he couldn’t be that ridiculous. Not now - Marco needed his reassurance.

And so, he picked a seat in the center of the whole, dark hall. A waiter approached him, and poured some sparkling champagne in his empty wine glass. With a nod, he thanked him. Lifting the glass, he smelled it, catching a whiff of the pearly, bubbly liquor inside it.

He had taken a few testing sips of it, when the lights inside the hall suddenly dimmed. It was time.

With that, all the other men and women sat themselves in their respective seats, eager for a night full of laughter. Jean was, too - but he was more eager for someone else.

Just as the lights dimmed, the stage grew brighter. Not with vintage-looking bulbs that the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’ had used around their stage before every show; that larger stage was alight with professional spotlights, placed high above their heads.

After a few introductory words spoken by the manager of the entire event, a small man appeared on the stage; with his mousy expressions and antics, he began the show with little jokes and tricks, keeping the whole audience’s spirits up for the rest of the evening.

After that man, came other people; one young girl came, who cracked jokes that didn’t quite connect with the audience. Then came a big, tall man, who cracked jokes so explicit that Jean could have called them vulgar - he had to be sent back because of his so-called jokes, in the end. Like that, people came and went; some brought about a giggle from Jean now and then, but most of the times he just grew bored. Soon enough, when five people had done their turns, Jean’s leg was bouncing up and down on it’s own. He didn’t even realize how much he was nervous - for him.

And as the the Universe had listened to him, he saw someone come up on stage - someone very familiar.

He walked up to the edge of the stage, grabbing for the mic on the stand before him. He tapped it once, twice, and it brought about a booming echo. Jean smiled to himself; he did that before any show - he had done that the first time he was at the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’, too. Jean subconsciously leaned over the table, holding his hands into nervous fists in his lap.

Then, he spoke, “Hey, guys, Welcome! Tonight, we’re gonna talk about semi-colons.”

Then, he paused.

And then, the whole audience laughed.

Even Jean did - was there any end to how clever he was?

From there, he took his routine off; he began with things as random as semicolons and other ‘ _annoying punctuation marks_ ’, and continued to other things, like parking lots, malls, and even schools. No matter how random the topic became, he was always successful in getting out a great laugh from the entire audience - most of all, from Jean. It hadn’t even been half his routine, and his sides were already hurting from laughing too much. God, he had always been this witty, this clever, this funny. He had always been this amazing - how had he not noticed that before?

As he was discussing his school days, he talked of his friends who turned out to be two-faced people:

“We all have our share of moments with two-faced friends, yeah? Who else over here has, huh?” That earned him nods and gestures of agreement - even a whoop from the back. Smiling, he continued, “See? We all have! Hell, I think _we_ might’ve been two faced at some point, too! But for real - these guys have annoyed me down to my core. If they were to be eliminated from the earth’s surface, I bet we’ll get a chance to possibly end world hunger!

“I mean, seriously! Like, back in college, I had come out as gay. It was a big moment for me - and I needed my friends. But they all just turned away, as soon as I said I liked boys. Most of them turned away in fear that I’d end up liking them!” Laughing, he said, “I mean dude, I did say I like boys, but c’mon - I’ve got _standards_!”

He got many giggles from that, and from Jean, too - but he grew more curious at that; he came out, but he had no one to help him back then?

‘ _No one’s ever helped me this much_.’

Was that true?

But just as quick, Marco continued his act: “And y’know what’s crazy about these kinds of friends? They’ll never admit their two-faced habits! You go tell ‘em if they care for you, and they’ll say ‘ _Yeah, honey! I love you!_ ’ I mean for all you know they’re planning a funeral for you back at home!

“And when they will come to your funeral, they’ll come up to your coffin, and say ‘ _oh, what a lovely person they were!_ ’ If that happened to me, God, I’d be so pissed off I’d just come back from the dead, just to say, ‘ _Bitch that wasn’t what you said behind my back!_ ’”

Jean threw his head back in laughter, but he didn’t stop, “And I swear - I’ll be ready to _haunt_ their asses for eternity!”

He paused so that the audience could calm down a little. He took a spare water bottle, and drank from it. Just when he lowered it, his eyes met Jean’s. Just then, time seemed to have stopped for the slightest of moments. It painfully reminded him of the time their eyes met for the first time, back in simpler times, back when he was just another comedian to him.

Then, Marco’s eyes seemed to have crinkled at the edges ever so slightly. He hoped it was just the lighting.

But just as quick, he turned his gaze away. Smiling softly, he grabbed the mic again.

He then said, “My time’s almost up here, so I’m gonna have to wrap this up quickly, on a lighter note. You guys will meet distractions as dumb as two-faced friends in life, but you should never let it hinder what you wanna do. Like, when I came out, no one thought I’d be successful. When I told them I wanna be a comedian - because I like making people happy, because it makes _me_ happy - everyone said I couldn’t do it. Well, who’s on the big stage _now_?!”

All at once, a huge mass of whoops encouraged the comedian on stage. Jean didn’t realize that he had been contributing to the cheers, too.

“So here’s something for you guys; never stop doing something you love, and be honest with yourself. And be kind - no one likes an asshole.” Giggling, he completed himself, “Be honest, kind, and don’t hesitate to do something that makes you feel special. You’ve got one life to live; live it well - and remember: the world might think you’re not special, you might think that yourself, but… but there will always be someone out there who’ll think that you are. Thank you, and have a good night!”

Jean was at a loss of words; not only had those words been so full of impact, he had said them, all while staring right at Jean’s eyes. That was no trick of the light.

Something tugged at his heart again, a strong jerk.

_It’s something you want, but you can’t have._

He felt sick.

But the feeling was lost when the entire crowd burst into loud cheers around him, consisting of claps, whoops of joy and even thumps on the table. When Jean looked around himself, he noticed how some of them had even stood up, giving him a standing ovation. One led to two, two led to four, and on and on it continued, till almost everyone was standing.

(Jean was nothing - but at least he wasn’t selfish.)

So he got up from his own seat, brought his hands together, and applauded that man on the stage, that man who had the power to make Jean laugh till his chest hurt; he whooped for that man, who stood on the stage with a big, proud smile on his face; he cheered for this man, who loved making people laugh, who was strong, thoughtful, brave, and downright beautiful.

(He was beautiful - and he couldn’t love him; he just didn’t deserve him.)

Like that, he stepped off the stage, and the crowd finally gave way to silence, when the last few participants came to perform their skits and jokes. Jean only paid them half of his attention, because he was actually waiting for Marco to come back - but strangely, there was no sign of him anywhere.

He checked his cellphone more than a few times, called him, texted him in anticipation for a reply - but nothing came. He glanced around him, at the stage, even behind him, craning his neck as far as he could - and even so, there was no sign of him at all. The thought troubled him; where was he?

Maybe the manager of the event had stopped him. Maybe he wanted a good few words with Marco - possibly even to congratulate him on such a great act of his. That gave his panicky heart some reassurance; _maybe this pause was something good!_

And so, he waited, too; he watched the few people that did come up give him a few giggles. But even so, they were only bearable; it was enough so that an hour passed by, and the event ended.

When he got up with everyone else, he glanced around the stage again; no sign of him. He looked at the doors behind him - even there, there was no sign of a mint-green sweater, or an iconic man-bun of any sorts. He peeked above all the heads of the wave of people going through the doors - and he could not find Marco anywhere.

Sweat bordered on his brow, regardless of how chilly the hall was - where did he go?

He sat back, and waited for a while, expecting a man clad in an iconic mint-green sweater to approach him, or someone with their hair tied up could come up to him, possibly with a big smile. Jean held on to that thought; he held on to it, even when half of the entire hall got empty. Even so, he waited.

After a couple of minutes, the entire hall was empty. No one remained except the janitors, who began cleaning up the place. By then, his mind had gone haywire; where did he go? He didn’t leave him there, did he? Did something happen to him-

Suddenly, he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

Jean turned around, expecting to see green frames and a bright smile - but he was met by a much bigger, man; it was the same guard who had led Marco backstage.

“It’s gettin’ late; best you go back, now,” the guard reasoned.

Jean knew that, he did. But he couldn’t just leave - not until he knew something of Marco’s whereabouts. He knew nothing of that place - what would he do?

Worrying his lip between his teeth, he said, “W-well, I’m waiting for a friend-”

“You mean Marco? I saw the guy leave this place around… 15 minutes ago.”

His eyes blew wide. _He left already?_

Thanking the man timidly, Jean made a run for it; he ran through the doors, crossed the wide and vast reception, and walked out into the night.

The cold stung his skin, but he couldn’t care less; he looked to his left, and then his right. He saw no one. He turned around a full 360°, searching, looking for him. Panic clawed at him when he couldn’t see him - _where did he go-_

When he stopped for a moment, and looked across the road, there he saw a figure standing. A figure, who looked down - and wore a mint-green sweater.

Jean sighed heavily in relief. Quickly he crossed the road; he had to congratulate him, for such a great performance.

“Hey!” Jean panted, when he reached Marco, “I told you you’d do great-”

But something made him stop himself. He didn’t complete his sentence, for everything else vanished the second he saw him; Marco looked at his feet, alright, but he wasn’t _seeing_ anything. He just stared at a void that did not exist. His eyes were hollow, his expression strangely gaunt, and it was then that Jean understood - he looked _broken_.

“J-jean, if you don’t mind, I... I don’t wanna talk about anything for a while.”

_What happened to him?_

“Did someone do something to you, Marco-”

“No, no…” he rejected weakly, shaking his head.

But Jean couldn’t find it in himself to just let it stop there: “If anyone did something to you, you can tell me-”

“No, Jean- stop! I just- I don’t wanna talk about it, _please_.”

The way he begged out the word ‘please’ made Jean hurt from the inside. When he met his eyes, they were glassy, but hard. They seemed fragile, so hollow - Jean had to control the urge to approach him, hug him, and comfort him.

But he didn’t want to talk about it. And so he didn’t.

Soon enough, they got on a free, empty bus. This time, there was no one inside, no one except the two of them. The ride had been slow, tiring, and silent. It wasn’t comfortable like it was a while ago. It wasn’t a peaceful silence; this one was stuffy. It suffocated Jean to just be there, and even more so when he had to sit next to Marco, who didn’t breathe a single word. He could feel himself drown in the stillness that quivered in the air between them, as he just sat beside him, looking so… Empty. Hollow.

That was the worst part; that this person who he potentially loved was breaking, tearing himself apart - and he could do nothing about it. He couldn’t ask; he couldn’t hold him - he couldn’t love him.

 _Only serves to make you understand why you can’t have him,_ his mind echoed.

And sickeningly, he believed that voice.

After what felt like forever, the bus finally stopped. From where Jean could see, he could make out the ‘ _Bouquet_ ’, it’s once well-lit windows now as dark as the night.

The two got off, and the bus departed on it’s way. For a moment, neither of the two spoke; they just stood upon the pavement, looking ahead, but not seeing anything.

Trying his measly luck, Jean began, “Well, I- I guess we’ll part now.”

Marco nodded. “Yeah. Thank you for coming, too. Take care,” was what he saw, as he turned around and walked the opposite direction. He didn’t even give the slightest glance or smile - what happened to him?

Just as an effort, Jean called out, “Y-you did amazing, Marco!”

When he himself turned towards his apartments, he had to pretend he didn’t hear Marco’s sniffles.

****

*****

****

Jean didn’t hear from Marco the next day. Or the next. Or the next.

In fact, he didn’t hear from him for over a whole week.

And the fact that he didn’t see so much as a glimpse of a smile, or heard the tiniest bits of giggles annoyed him. Even in the café, whenever he donned his apron to work for the day, he always expected to see a freckled visitor; sometimes, he’d plan new and rare flowers he had wanted Marco to have as a surprise - but no such visitor came. No such friend came to brighten his day.

 _Damn you,_ Jean cursed himself. _He just needs space; something must have happened to him back at the Maria Hotel. Let him have some time for himself!_

But even so, whenever he was reminded of that wretched hotel, he had to resist the urge to bite straight through his lower lip; what he had to see back there had truly disturbed him. The way Marco looked so small, defeated, alone… It hurt Jean to think someone as priceless as him had to suffer like that. He had not been the Marco Jean was acquainted with; the Marco Bodt he knew seemed strong, sturdy, and whole.

But then, did he truly know him at all?  
He would be lying if he thought otherwise; although a month of acquaintance was more than enough for a friendship to flower into something strong, there always remained facets of him that he never knew, parts of his being he never truly understood. Like the moon had a dark side to itself that shielded itself away from the world, maybe that freckled man was like that, too. Maybe he had a whole side to him, that could be so much different than what Jean could see.  
And what was stranger? The fact that Jean had an undying need to find it all out.  
He could not help himself; to think someone like Marco had parts of him he hid away from the world - it only served to spark Jean’s curiosity; what else made Marco who he was? How different was he truly? He had an unspoken urge to map all of him out - all from the facts and figures he already knew, to the deeper, uncharted regions of his being, his soul.

The moment he’d fantasize about learning newer things about Marco, he’d shun the thought away - calling it a fantasy, and nothing more. For how could someone like Jean memorize someone as amazing as Marco? How could he learn all the pieces of Marco Bodt, and care for them - when he could not even help him when he was breaking, back at the Maria Hotel?

(The reason was simple - he was someone he could never hope to deserve.)

The constant worry of Marco’s whereabouts persisted; like a cold hand creeping up Jean’s neck, it made him fret with fright - so much so, that even his friends began noticing it.

“What’s with the long face, Jean?” observed a cheeky-Ymir one day, when they were opening up the store for another busy day.

Connie ‘ _pfft_ ’ed from the storeroom. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s not getting his dose of some freckled booty!”

“W-what the hell, Connie!” Jean spluttered, almost sending a tower of plates crashing down.

“But it’s sorta true-”

“No, Eren. It’s not,” Jean demanded, as he dusted the tables. “Marco just had a rough night back at the Maria Hotel, and he wants a break. So he’ll be back soon - maybe he’ll be back this week, or even today!”

Jean went on about how Marco would show up any minute. He convinced the rest that when those dark doors would open, a familiar, freckled friend would appear, with his hair tied in an artful bun, and a pair of goofy looking glasses. He had used such a demanding tone, even he believed himself.

But when those doors opened, young people came, children and teenagers alike; old couples came, and so did lonesome people, who enjoyed their own company. Everyone else came - all except Marco.

Where had he gone?

****

That night, he was rolling that very question in his mind over and over. Sleep was a futile attempt; no matter how much he twisted and turned, no form of slumber made his eyes heavy. He was forced to just lay in bed, stare at the ceiling, and think of all the places Marco might have gone.

Grumbling, he turned his head to his right. He squinted through the darkness to make out the time; his clock had just struck 11 PM. He groaned, rubbing his eyes as a lame attempt to make his sticky eyes close. But whenever his eyes slid close, he was painfully reminded of a smile, a laugh, and a radiating presence he had been missing for what felt like ages.

He groaned again, like an old man. Clawing beside him for his phone, and unlocked it, going through for any new messages.

He had been doing that everyday; everyday, he’d open his cellphone at least thrice, and search through his messages for any new message from Marco. And everyday, he would be disappointed-

-just like he was now. When he scrolled through his contacts, he found no new message from ‘ _Marco_ ’. Just like any other day, he was pissed again.

When he found his contact name, he paused. His thumb hovered over the green button, shaped like a telephone just beside his number. He glanced at the time again, and then back at his cellphone. Maybe he wasn’t even up, it was late night, after all. _But then_ , he thought, chewing his lip, it wouldn’t hurt to try.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought, as he clicked that button. When his phone started ringing, he pressed it to his ear, waiting, waiting, and waiting.

After six rings, the phone beeps gave way to his voicemail: “Hey! You've reached the voicemail of Marco Bodt - leave a message after the beep, and I’ll return your message ASAP! Take care!”

For a moment, Jean was caught off guard. Without even thinking, he started smiling; it was just a stupid voice message, and yet it was the most he had heard from him for over a week.

It was also then that he didn’t even register the beep that had ensued. He realized that he had to leave a message now-

“Ah- _fuck_ , I, uh- _hi_ ,” he began quite lamely, “It’s me, Jean- well, of course you know I’m _Jean_ \- b-but that’s not the point!”

Breathing in, he tried calming his jittery nerves, and said, “My point is- is that- that I hope you’re okay. I- I haven’t heard from you for a week, and well- I’m worried. So I hope you’re okay. Call back whenever you can- I miss you.”

When he had cancelled the call, he recalled-

Why did he tell him that he missed him?!

It wasn’t as if he didn’t, but the fact that he told him that, with such honesty - it was weird.

He was reconsidering his lack of good decisions in his life, with a pillow over his face, when he heard his cell phone vibrate.

Flinging it off his face at the speed of light, he reached for his phone. When he saw the message, he was taken aback:

 **_From Marco:_ ** _The sky’s dark tonight._

_What…?_

**_From Marco:_ ** _im at ur apartments, on the roof. would u like to join me?_

Jean looked at the time again, this time slowly. He blinked once, twice, and then stared at his cellphone again.

It was 11:30 in the night. It was freezing outside. He hadn’t heard from Marco for over a week - and now he was up on the roof. At his apartments.

_Is he even serious?_

Scrambling off of the bed, he searched the ground for his shoes. With his other hand, he grasped for a coat. Just before he left, however, he paused; Marco sat out in the open, right? _Given his state, he might be cold…_

Quickly, he grabbed a random beanie placed nearest to him, and bolted out of his house.

Taking the steps three at a time, he ran up the flight of stairs. As he did, his mind had thoughts that whizzed past one another at insurmountable speeds; what was he doing there? Why was he there? Did something happen to him? What’s wrong with him? Why was he so distant? Why was he breaking-?

At last, he saw the door appear before him. That dark door stood tall and proud; it once gave him feelings of excitement, when he was about to observe the evening sky with Marco - but there, at that moment, it gave him nothing but dread. It gave him nothing if not a series of ‘ _what if_ ’s that plagued him.

For a moment, all he wanted to do was to turn around, bolt from there, and hide under the covers for the rest of the night. He was never good with feelings - worse when they were someone else’s. How could _he_ , of all people, help when someone as important as Marco was hurting like this? Would he even do the slightest bit of justice?

As he stood there longer, he almost believed it was all a misunderstanding; maybe he was just pranking him, or just trying to tease him a little. Because no one would want to come out in the middle of the night, out in the brutal cold, right? _Right_?

His throat grew dry. He gulped, and stared at the knob again. He shouldn’t just throw away everything on one stupid ‘ _maybe_ ’, should he? Marco had been helping him since day one, picking him up when he couldn’t himself, with the slightest of jokes and smiles; he had been the one to fix him whenever he was afraid, with soft words that soothed him. Even if the freckled comedian wasn’t aware of it himself, he had helped Jean.

Marco practically changed Jean - it was the least he could do.

He turned his hands into hard fists. Focusing in on the doorknob again, he grabbed it - this time, he didn’t cower; he wrenched it open, and braced for the cold wind that blew over him.

It was stone cold, and it made Jean shiver to his bones - but he couldn’t give in there. Fighting it, he stepped out.

When he did, the wind softened a little, till it fell back into a quivering silence. The night was dark, and lonely. He stood in the darkness, squinting around for some sign of Marco, somewhere around the vacant roof. When he looked beside himself, he saw no one.

But then, he saw someone familiar, right behind him.

The man sat on the floor, his back against a wall - the same wall against which the both of them had sat, what felt like ages ago. But he didn’t look content, or peaceful, as he had before. Back then, he was confident. Back then, he had seemed happy, alive.

But what Jean saw now, was just some hollow man, who leaned against a wall with his legs hugged close to his chest so tight, as if it were the only thing holding him there. His entire body hunched over himself, cowering, scared. There was no aura of confidence glinting against his glasses, no sign of glee, or tranquility - he gave a strange aura of something troubling; a sadness curved bags under his eyes so deep even the faintest of moonlights could have made them out.

He saw Marco, alright - but he didn’t look like him; the Marco he knew wasn’t this… _empty_.

When that man spoke, he definitely sounded like Marco:

“Hey…” he said, in a voice drained of all purpose. Jean was still surprised, shocked into stillness, until Marco patted the seat next to himself, saying, “You don’t have to stand; sit, please.”

Hesitantly, he obliged, seating himself beside Marco, not taking his eyes off of him for even the slightest of seconds. He was seeing him again an entire week after what had happened to him - and yet he was completely clueless. _What happened, Marco?_ he wanted to scream. _What got into you? You don’t have to hurt - not alone!_

But before any word left his lips, he heard Marco speak again:

“As much as I like the sky in the day, I just… I like the night, too. It’s quiet, and dark… and I’m alone, too. It makes me feel as if I’m not small - that I’m not insignificant. It makes me think I’m… Bigger than the speck we all are, in this world…”

A silent gust of wind blew over them, soft as a feather. It ruffled Marco’s light-colored sweater, and swept his flimsy hair in his eyes. Seeing them fluttering over his face like that - it made him itch to reach for them, and swipe the stray bangs out of his forehead, maybe even run his fingers through them, to comfort him, and-

_Stop, Jean. Not now._

When the wind ceased, Marco said, “You might need an explanation, of why I vanished so suddenly, only to call you up here selfishly...”

“Marco-” he tried saying, but Marco lifted a hand, silencing him.

“Please, let me explain myself.”

After he said that, he sighed again, bringing his legs impossibly closer to himself. He spent a few moments in silence, just breathing in the silence. What is he trying to say…?

Just then, he began:

“Back at the, uhm, Maria Hotel, I- everyone loved my performance. The manager of the event brought me in a while later, telling me how I did amazing, but…”

When he looked away, Jean urged, “But?”

“But, they didn’t want to bring me in their show at Chicago - th-they _couldn’t_ ,” he explained, in a strained voice.

The way his voice grew thinner as he progressed on told Jean that this was some sensitive topic. But he couldn’t just leave him at that.

He asked, “ _Couldn’t?_ What do you mean?”

Marco bit his lip hard. He tipped his head back, looked up, and stared at the black sky above him. Even in the darkness, he could make out how his eyes flitted to and fro - as if they were searching for something real, something true.

“They couldn’t- because they didn’t want to keep a ‘ _gay_ ’ person in their acts,” and then, he laughed so cruelly, so brokenly, and continued, “T-they said it would- it would create problems for them.”

Everything else numbed deep inside Jean, when he heard those words; how could they…

How could _he_ have sat in the company of such homophobic people? Why did he? He felt sick to the core.

“But when I left the place, I heard them, I heard them well- they just didn’t want a- a ‘ _faggot_ ’ to lower their ratings.”

By then Jean was practically burning with rage.

He was controlling it from tipping over the brim, as he heard Marco sigh beside him. When he stared at him again, he noticed how he simply deflated, with not a single shred of energy left in his bones. He looked hollower, and so broken. He looked as if he had… given up.

_No, not you, Marco. Not you; you were the one who made me want to not give up - you can’t give up._

“Y-you think that the world finally… likes you,” he spoke, in a voice fragile like glass, “You think that maybe- maybe the Universe has finally accepted you, and that it just- it’s given you a place in this world, it’s given you strength. It’s- it’s fucking stupid if you think about it; you think that you’re finally okay, and when you finally believe it - everything comes crashing down. _Everything_.”

Marco stopped looking at the sky, almost tearing his gaze away from a world he once loved, once looked up to, and smiled at.

Instead, he rested his chin on his knees, and sighed again. He traced the floor with his eyes when the silence lapsed on for long.

When he spoke up again, it was in a voice feather-light and whisper-faint:

“You think the Universe believes that you’re worth it - when really, you’ll always just be… insignificant. Weak. Unimportant.”

By then, all Jean wanted to scream was one word: _no, no, no, Marco. No. You’re not unimportant- God, you’re everything._

He couldn’t help himself: “Marco, that’s not true, and you know that-”

When he extended a hand out, to rest on Marco’s shoulder, Marco flared:

“ _Really_ , Jean? Do I know that?” he lashed out, a wild look clouding his eyes, “I’ve always convinced myself the same thing; every time when I look at the mirror, and-and stare at myself, all I ever say is that- that ‘ _what they say doesn’t matter._ ’ But when the world has tried to make me believe otherwise for the last 10 years, then I’ve got no choice, _do I_?!”

He was panting when he ended his rant. A moment after he realized how he had reacted, he started shaking his head.

“I- God, I’m sorry,” he whispered shakily, “I- I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

He grabbed handfuls of his hair in his hands and pulled, tugged, as the tendons in his hands pulled taut. Jean couldn’t bear the torture he was putting himself through; he grabbed his hands, and squeezed them warmly, so that he’d stop.

When he did, he looked at Jean.

And when he did, Jean also realized how damn close he was to Marco; there was nothing but a breath’s distance between the two. If he moved the slightest, he could nudge their noses together. If he just tilted his head slightly, maybe he could…

Swallowing the urge back down, he said again, this time forcefully: “ _No_ , Marco. You don’t have to be sorry. And you aren’t unimportant - and their words don’t mean a damn thing.”

Marco didn’t fight. He didn’t lash out, wrench himself far, far away from him, or scream at him or at himself- he just stared. He kept on staring, his eyes dying with every passing moment.

In the end, he shook his head ever so slightly - still in denial.

Gulping, he whispered one, simple question: “How are you sure?”

Jean stared deeply into his eyes, lost in thought himself. What made him say that?

Just then, the sky sent another cold wave of air. When it did, Jean looked up. When he did, he saw not a black night sky, but a cloudy one; white tufts of cloud, thick and fluffy crowded over one another across the empty expanse. When he did see their crevices and ridges, he thought of an idea.

_It’s worth a shot._

He got up, but didn’t let go of Marco’s left hand. When he was back on his feet, the freckled man hadn’t moved - only his eyes followed him wherever he went, in search for an answer to his question.

But Jean wasn’t going to answer it. He was going to _show_ it to him.

“C’mon,” Jean urged with a tiny smile, tugging his hand.

Biting his lip, Marco complied unwillingly; he stood beside Jean, his right hand opening and closing fretfully, while his right one was in the confines of Jean’s own.

Marco finally asked, tired, “What’s this about, Jean?”

Jean only nodded to him. Squeezing his hand once more, he let go; he then cupped them around his mouth, looked up to the sky, and shouted:

“ _I'm gay!_ ”

Marco’s eyes blew wide, but Jean didn’t stop:

“ _I’m gay! Gay as the fourth of July!_ ”

“What are you doing-”

“ _I’m Jean Kirschtein- and I like dicks!_ ”

“What the _hell_ , Jean!”

Marco looked perplexed, and grew even more so when he heard Jean’s tiny laugh in the end.

“Marco,” he breathed, “whatever I shouted just now were things bullies called me, back in college. They-they gave me a rough time, too. But then years later, I understood... their words are _nothing_ , you understand?”

Marco was still confused, his hair whipping around his face, but Jean continued:

“Didn’t you notice how every word I spoke just- just _vanished_? They did nothing; they ran away with the wind the moment I spoke them - that just shows how stupid their words are! In college, I just let them ruin me - when really, they just mean shit. Those words they say… they never matter, Marco; because you don’t have to be greater than the Universe in order to be strong.”

Marco was shaking his head in denial again, but Jean grabbed his upper arms hard, and shook him:

“You’re right, Marco. The world’s cruel. It’s- it loves fucking people up bad, and it’s got a knack of pushing people down to the ground, reminding us that we can never be greater than the Universe. And maybe we’ll never be - but we’re a lot stronger than what we give ourselves credit for. And I know - I know you’re so much stronger.”

When he was done with his speech, he was panting; not because he screamed, but he felt his chest heave with the intensity of what he just said.

Marco wasn’t staring at him anymore. He looked anywhere but him- at the floor, at the walls, at his shoes, even. Right then, he was gnawing at his lower lip. From where he held his arms, he could feel him shaking, quaking under all the feelings he had been hoarding up for- for God knows how long.

_It doesn’t have to be that way._

Again, a strong wind blew across the two of them. Marco shivered, ready to break there and then. Just then, Jean remembered-

He caught the beanie from the ground, and brought it close. It was then that he saw: it was the same white beanie Marco made him wear - it was his beanie. Did he forget to return it to him that day? Maybe he was too enamored by his scent.

Shaking his head, he pulled it in both his hands, and stretched it. Marco was a few inches taller; yet, slowly, he covered the beanie over his hair, blocking him from the wind.

When Marco looked up to him again, Jean was once again painfully reminded of how close they got again; from here, he could smell the cheap beer he must have drunk; from here, he could count the millions of freckles scattered all over his skin; from here, he could see his eyes, bright even in the dark. His hands could feel his heat from where they held the beanie, just over his temple - and for a moment, he wanted nothing else but to close the damned distance for once and for all, to fuck all the rules he had made for himself, and kiss him-

_Jean._

_You can’t have him. You can’t._

He paused, before looking at him again. When he did, he realized something:

He couldn’t have him. He didn’t deserve him, his love, his beautiful smile - but that was… okay. Because he deserved so much more. As much as his gut twisted at the thought, he made himself believe it - that it was _okay_.

After what felt like forever, Marco finally asked, his voice quaking as hard as he was, “Why are you helping me? Why _me_?”

Jean couldn’t help but smirk at that; there stood Marco Bodt, someone so strong, noble, elegant, real, funny, smart, and beautiful; there stood someone so perfect, in all the senses of the word - and he was asking why was he helping him. _Him_ ; as if he didn’t deserve as much.

 _God, Marco, you’re so dumb_ , he wanted to say wryly. _You’re perfect - why_ not _you?_

“Because,” he answered, as he placed his hands on his shoulders, “it’s true; what they say doesn’t matter - their words as as small as we all are. A-and y’know what? You might not be significant to the Universe, but you’re significant to me. The world can think you’re useless- but… but you’re really special- to _me_.”

Jean was alarmed at how honest each and every word was.

Marco was close to crying when he heard that; his eyes grew wet, and his lower lip quivered. Jean resisted the urge to wipe them away with his thumb, instead letting him understand what he was trying to say- that he was important. That he was special.

The wetness in his big, brown eyes caught his eyelashes, and threatened to fall - when something white fell on his cheek, instead.

The both of them looked up. And it was then that they noticed-

“It’s… snowing,” Marco whispered, looking up in a daze.

It felt as if all his troubles melted away, when a few more white flakes fell on him, two on his cheeks, one on his nose. They began to thicken, as they clumped up against his eyelashes - but he just stared at the sky, in utter awe.

Jean caught his flow; slowly, he released his grip from his shoulders, and let him walk a little. Just as he predicted, he went a little further away, turning in a circle. As much as the distance that grew between them hurt Jean inside, he ignored it; instead, he smothered it up with how intently Marco gazed at the sky, catching the fluffy snow in his hands. He eased his pain by reveling in his happiness, his peace - in _him_.

It was okay.

When Marco stopped turning, Jean spoke the first thing that came to his mind:

“It’s snowing - and you’re underneath it, right now.”

His vagueness made Marco stare at him in confusion, until Jean shrugged:

“Seems to me as if… As if this is a call from the Universe - that you’re not alone.”

Jean could feel Marco’s breath stutter through his eyes, as they stilled for the slightest of moments. And later, he had seen something else flicker behind them, even in the black night - but what was it?

It was gone as soon as it came, as Marco turned away, sudden. When the snow thickened even more, Marco closed his eyes, and faced the sky. It felt as if he were absorbing the sky’s snow, it’s subtlety, softness; it felt as if he were reaching out for the Universe, trying to believe that maybe, he wasn’t alone.

When Jean saw wet streaks against his cheeks, and the gentlest of smiles, he thought that maybe, he finally did believe it.

****

**_\---_ **

****

**_December_ **

****

The month of December came around not with soothing winds or the subtle transformations of nature, but with thick, white clouds that showered snow over the entire city of New York. The streets that once glimmered grey and silver in the sunlight were now blanketed thickly with layers of fresh, fluffy snow. The trees grew naked as the last green leaves fell, and the brown, gnarled  branches were topped with snow as light as powdered sugar - it brought about not only the wintery season, but also the festive season.

Everyone knew how Christmas was just approaching them. Though three weeks still remained till it’s arrival, it stopped no one from prepping themselves up well and good for the festive holiday; families big and small began buying their trees, and respective decorations to go with it. All kinds of stores already began having Christmas-themed goods for sale - which was also why they were packed from the very beginning of December. Some shops were extravagant enough to set up holiday green-and-red lights already.

Though the ‘ _Bouquet_ ’ was not too eager on the decorations, they did pull out new Christmas-themed deals and food items. Along with that, each customer would get a mistletoe free with every free flower they got.

Their manager had promised the strategy to be prosperous - and prosperous, it was; from the first of December, people slowly trickled into the cafe, interested in their new menu. The trickle soon thickened, till masses of people began filling the tiny coffee shop. Though the work sometimes proved hard and nerve-wracking, Jean thought it enough to keep himself busy.

Yet, it was never enough to fully block out the poison that Jean called his own thoughts.

No matter how many customers he served, no matter how many bundles of mistletoe and flowers he made, no matter how hard he worked - his mind was never able to shut the one thought that bothered him:

That something between him and Marco had changed.

Sure, after how Jean had helped Marco from his struggles, their friendship had begun to strengthen once more; Marco came to the ‘ _Bouquet_ ’ regularly once again, always with a smile that Jean greeted with equal happiness. They chatted, and even had a few good laughs; it seemed as if everything had fallen back to normal. But even then - there was no denying a shift their friendship seemed to have shown. Giving it a name proved to be even harder.

Like how the word ‘ _friendship_ ’ seemed so foreign on the tip of Jean’s tongue; because ever since Jean learned that new facet of Marco Bodt, his desire to search him had been sated - but only momentarily. Soon, what had once been a spark grew into a stronger fire, burning right at the center of his chest.

Once Jean learned something new about him, all he ever wanted to was to know more about him. Ever since he saw him so vulnerable under that snowy night, understood the common human weaknesses he possessed - it was more than enough for him to trip, and fall down harder than before. There was no denying it; his affection had grown maddening.

There was also no denying how Jean noticed the shift from Marco’s side, too.

Whenever he and Marco met, Jean had to pretend as if he didn’t see Marco smiling at him more often than not; he had to pretend as if he’d never heard his gentle laughs at every joke he cracked - no matter how lame it would be. He had to act as if he couldn’t feel his stare boring holes into him, whenever he was looking away. Sometimes, he thought it was just his mind playing tricks. But most of the times, it showed him something else.

Jean’s heart throbbed at that aspect - that maybe, _maybe_ , Marco liked him back?

Yet, that hopeful ray of light would always be thrown into darkness, whenever he realized the reality; Marco could not like someone as plain, as boring, and as insignificant as Jean. He couldn’t; why would he, when every part of him - from his odd glasses, to his unique hair, to his freckles, and his smiles - was special?

That was reality - and accepting it had been a hard, hard feat. Because whenever he stood in his mere presence, all Jean wanted to do was to just throw away all his blasted restrictions, fuck everything, and fall deeper and deeper into that strange, beautiful man. He wanted to - his heart wanted nothing else.

But then, he couldn’t. He just- _couldn’t_. Even then, his heart was wild; it was wild, and loved to hurt itself, over and over.

His heart loved to stare at his freckles on his cheeks, notice how they turned pink whenever he laughed, see his long hair fall into his eyes whenever he ducked, love how his eyes glowed almost all of the time.

It would elate him - and then destroy him. It was a brutal cycle; yearn, and then leave. Love him, and then hate his own self. Want, and then restrain. Elation, and then destruction. There was no force on earth that could end that wicked game, finish it once and for all. But there was little he could do; he was falling, and falling hard.

And he could do nothing - nothing but yearn, and let himself get hurt over the things he couldn’t have. It was the only thing he knew how to do.

****

He was suffering under that cycle one cold, December evening, when Marco came rushing in the little coffee shop, with a smile on his face - again - and his hair disheveled with the cold, wintery air.

“Hey!” he greeted. Jean greeted back with a nod.

After Marco ordered a slice of lemon pie for himself, Marco asked eagerly, “So, have you started Christmas shopping?”

Jean resisted the urge to roll his eyes; that was one of the many things he did not like doing at all. He had nothing against it, really; people going out to buy trees, decorations, and preparing themselves for a well-celebrated Christmas day - it was a way for them to spend a holiday. But then Jean had never found it necessary to go through all that trouble when he lived in a small apartment alone, with no true friends or room to share the festivity so greatly, with.

“Nah, man,” he answered honestly.

Marco downright pouted. “No? Why?”

Jean shrugged. “It’s not my thing, really.”

“Oh, c’mon! It’s Christmas!”

Jean had to bite a smile at how eager he sounded, practically shaking with pent-up anticipation for a white, wintery holiday.

He got no chance to reply, for Marco spoke up:

“Tell you what - I’ll take you Christmas shopping. _Tonight_.”

Jean eyed him like an owl.

“Marco, what do you-”

“No!”

“Oh, _c’mon_ -”

“Nope!”

“Hey, could you just listen-”

“Can’t hear you, no, no, no!”

Jean had to roll his eyes. He folded his arms, sighing through his nose.

But Marco took the chance to lean in really close, and tell him, “You are gonna come. You can’t miss the celebrations! And besides, I heard Time Square’s setting up a great Christmas tree - and they’ll light it, too!”

“But Marco-”

“ _No buts_ , Jean. Please, we’ll have fun! It's- it’s been awhile since we got out together...”

Jean suppressed the images of a snowy night, when Marco had finally given into the Universe he had tried so hard to grow bigger than - instead, sighing, as he gave in:

“Okay, fine. We’ll go.”

Marco physically burst with joy at that. “Yes! I knew you had it in you,” he cheered, punching a fist into Jean’s shoulder. And though the brush of skin burned - Jean still smiled.

****

Marco picked him up from the ‘ _Bouquet_ ’ at 9 PM. Jean thought he was dressed a little too festively, when he wore a thick, green sweater beneath his leather jacket - but it was nothing compared to Marco, who was clad in an oh-so-common ugly Christmas jumper.

Jean groaned, as he studied the hideous colors of red and green mixing around a red-nosed reindeer, stitched in a deep muddy brown color. “You’re one of them?”

“ _Oh ho_ , why, you noticed!” Marco smirked in reply, “C’mon, a little festivity won’t hurt anyone!”

(But it was hurting Jean - because how could he look so damn cute any way?)

Together, they sat on a bus, and headed off to Time Square, off for a good night of ‘ _shopping_ ’ as Marco put it. He couldn’t stop talking about all the things he’d buy, all from decorations for his Christmas tree, down to the socks he’d pick (“ _they’re a Bodt tradition!_ ”). Through the entire ride, Jean had tried not to focus too hard on how his lips curled around vowels, paused beneath consonants, and worded every word so fluently. He tried hard not to notice just how hot he looked when he had half of his hair made in a bun, while the rest flowed till his jaws - like he did then. He tried not to let his heart go on a wild spree again, tried not to fall for his smile, his laughs, his presence all over again.

(But he failed - miserably.)

Soon, they reached the ever-amazing Time Square. Jean had been there a billion times, but it never failed to make him sigh in amazement, not when it was decorated this brilliantly; wherever Jean looked, he was greeted by fairy lights that twinkled red, green and yellow. They hung from the walls of the tall buildings that surrounded them, and draped themselves from one lamp post to the next.

Jean and Marco walked on, the fresh snow crunching beneath their feet. Though big, misty clouds of breaths puffed out of Jean’s lungs, the place didn’t feel cold - not with so many people around him, with bags in their hands. As the pair of them scuffed their dirty feet against the pavement, he began noticing how different the entire city seemed, in a blink of an eye. He was used to a busy world, where everyone cared little of things that had true value. But ahead, he saw people who had arms around friends, who laughed with their family, who stared at anything but their cellphones. Everyone was smiling - everyone was warm, and happy. Everything felt real once more.

Jean couldn’t contain a beaming smile at it all.

Marco did not let him see the rest of Time Square, for he first dragged Jean through gift stores, sifting through snow globes, knitted scarves and whatnot.

“I have a fetish for snow globes - no kidding!” Marco had explained, as he loaded two big snow globes in his hands. He shoved one in Jean’s hands. He tried protesting, until Marco stopped him short:

“You’re buying that! You’ll have a mini-souvenir for the time we went Christmas shopping!”

Jean was downright ready to decline the offer - until he saw a tiny rose jutting through white, flaky snow, that descended upon it in it’s glassed confines. Its petals were as red as blood, it’s stem a bright green - he loved it there and then.

Like that, they visited numerous shops, buying things Jean didn’t know or needed - but seeing the way Marco always lit up at the sight of Christmas-themed things, it eventually caught on Jean, too. Even when they had spent over an hour like that, Jean could not feel the exhaustion over him; he was too busy smiling at everything, pointing out things he knew they wanted to buy.

When they were crossing the center of Times Square, their bags in their hands, he heard Marco exclaim:

“Look, Jean!”

And when Jean lifted his eyes, he could only stare, with not a single word.

Above him, loomed a gigantic Christmas tree, way larger than life. It’s bushy leaves flowered from it’s base, and thinned out as it reached the apex, till it ended as thin as a needle right at the top. It’s leaves were dusted with white, fluffy snow, but it’s big trunk stood out dark and demanding from it all. People pooled around the tree in big clusters, either taking pictures of it or just gawking at its magnificence.

But then, something felt off about it.

“Where are the lights?” he asked.

Marco hummed in thought. “Maybe they’ll light it up soon, or- wait, wait, I see them plugging something! Oh my God - they’re lighting it up now!”

He grabbed for Jean’s hand, and pulled him through the crowd.

Jean could not retort, for he was being pulled with such strength, he started underestimating Marco’s physique. They dodged people here and there, just to see the great tree coming in closer, and closer, until they were darkened beneath its wide shadow.

“Here is good!” Marco professed, stopping just a few feet away from the unlit tree, “We’ll get a good view from here, right?”

Jean was panting heavily through his nose. He might have agreed to go on a shopping spree, but running around like that wasn’t a part of his plan, exactly.

Gulping in air, he wheezed out the first thing he could come up with, “Are you even _serious_?”

Most might have gotten offended by that statement. But not Marco - never Marco.

He just smiled a simple, gentle smile, that was lined with nerves just around the edges. He then stared at his feet sheepishly, as he explained, “W-well, I just like this part. It makes me feel happy - I figured it would make you happy, too.”

Jean’s breath left him, at that last line.

_Damn you, Marco. You’ve got not a single flaw in you, huh?_

Coughing out a few words of agreement and thanks, the two stared at the tall tree standing before them, waiting for the time to tick by, so that they could have a show stopping moment. Time seemed to be moving on really slow, and Jean was already running himself dry with patience. Luckily Marco kept him busy with light conversation, but nothing could sate the spark Marco had lit up inside Jean; he had to see what could make Marco happy - what made him feel special.

And then, suddenly, there was a flicker; a flicker, a fluctuation - and then a million tiny lights circled themselves around the giant Christmas tree, curving and twisting through leaves and branches. Some of them glowed red; some glowed green - and most of them glowed with a yellow spark. Jean could count each and every red and gold bauble that hung at its branches, twisting through its expanse - ending right at the top, where a big, golden star glowed proudly. As if a million stars had descended upon that member of the forest, Jean couldn’t help but stare with his mouth agape, awe-struck at how goddamn beautiful it all looked.

Just as the thought flitted past his mind, he heard Marco whisper beside him:

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Beautiful was a small word for what Jean could see. It was-

“It’s just… perfect,” he replied.

Marco hummed in thought, both of their eyes glued at the brilliant scene they saw before them. A silence of dialogue elapsed between the two of them, filled with nothing but the cheers of the people surrounding them, applauding a job well done.

And then, Marco said, “Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“I- I didn’t want to tell the news like this, but… I got another shot…”

Jean licked his chapped lips. He still didn’t look at him, but he prepared himself for what would come next.

“W-where?” he asked, his heart strung tight.

The pause that ensued later made Jean’s heart beat fast. _Don’t tell me_ -

“It’s… it’s in Chicago.”

Suddenly, his heart sunk. He slid his eyes close, reveling in the fact: Marco was leaving New York.

He was leaving him - _for good_.

“There was another company who saw my act back at the Maria Hotel,” Marco explained slowly, “and they liked my performance - s-so, they picked me. _Heh_.” He laughed in the end, but it had no kind of humor in it.

Jean couldn’t feel his voice inside his throat. He was too shocked to even form words. Wordlessly, he clenched his cold fingers into fists. He stared at the tree before him, praying to any God up above - _this is not real, it can’t be, don’t let it be true._

But then, his honey-deep voice broke his reverie again: “And I… I should be happy about this. I should be proud - but I’m _not_ . I mean, I’ve been waiting for this for so long, and yet, I feel- I feel _confused_ , I-I…”

Jean could feel Marco digging fingers into his hair, pulling them at its roots. But he didn’t look at him - not yet.

And then, he spoke again:

“And it was then that I realized… I- I’ll _miss_ you.”

Those words smacked themselves against Jean’s chest hard, making him exhale shakily.

But Marco, he didn’t stop there:

“I’ll miss you, and that’s why I’m not happy about this shot. I- I mean- ever since high school, no one’s ever had my back. When I came out, I got bullied a lot. But... everyone turned against me, showing their backs to me- and it _hurt_. It hurt a- a lot. As I grew up, I got used to it. I figured that if I make people laugh, if I make people smile, I’ll forget my own sadness. B-but then… I met you.”

Jean could feel his eyes boring holes into his skull, his soul, as he continued, gently:

“I met you, and I… I felt normal. I felt that there’s someone with me, someone who won’t just leave. You were honest, you were there for me- and I- I didn’t feel so bitter towards the world, anymore. I forgot everything- everything bad that had ever happened to me, because you- you made me feel… _important_.”

His lips gnawed at his lip hard, and shook his head ever so slightly. Only one word resonated through his mind, over and over, like a mantra: _no, no, no._

“You make me feel important - you treat me as if I’m _human_ . You make me feel happy, and I’ve never felt that since… _ever_. And that night, when we- when you-” He was stumbling over his words, overcome by a wave of emotions anyone but Jean deserved.

“Back when you told me that I- that I wasn’t insignificant- God, you made me- you made me feel so goddamn special. And I can’t let that go- and I…”

_No, no, no, no-_

“I think I might be in love with you.”

 _Crash. Boom_ . Sparks flew inside of him, but those weren’t the kinds that were lined with giddy, happy nerves; those seared, those popped and burned, as tongues of flames hurt him deep inside. Those were raw, hard, and brought nothing but a wave of self-hatred. _You don’t deserve him, you don’t deserve him-_

It wasn’t until Jean felt heat radiate from his right side, that he flitted his gaze to Marco.

That was the first time he had met his eyes so deeply, and he was sure it was his last.

They were watery, but he wasn’t crying; they glimmered over his brown eyes, shining like gemstones. And he was so damn close, Jean could make out the flecks of hazel lining his pupils. He could make out the peppermint latte he drank, his minty breath warm, yet fresh over his skin. Through the mist of winter, Jean stared at him deeply. He wanted nothing but to fuck everything, finish all the damned rules he made for himself, run into his warm arms, and dissolve within the deep brown pools of his eyes, into nothing.

But he had to face reality: it was something he wanted, but he couldn’t have.

 _Marco_ was someone he wanted, he needed - he loved - and yet, yet he could not have him.

Without knowing himself, Jean cowered ever so slightly. He ducked his gaze, and bit back bitter tears, avoiding his strong stare.

But then, he felt warmth; he felt a finger curling around his pointed chin. He felt his stare being lifted from the ground, only to be met by his eyes again. They were impossibly close; he could stand on his tiptoes, he could tilt his head, close his eyes, and then-

_No, please. Please, Marco. Don’t do this._

Marco stared at him silently. His finger still didn’t leave his chin, holding him in place - and Jean could do nothing but meet that intense stare, a stare that could melt him. His eyes then flitted across Jean’s lips, ever so subtly. His breath ghosted over the chapped skin. He leaned closer, closer, until all Jean could _feel_ was Marco. Then, he tilted his face so slightly, and _then_ -

-then, his lips brushed against Jean’s skin. It was then that Jean saw his own cold fingers, blocking the path between their lips.

Marco didn’t pull his lips away too soon; he just stood their. And his eyes shifted just enough - enough to make Jean see the confusion, the hurt he must have felt.

_Can’t you see? This is all I can give you._

He felt sick again. He wanted to leave.

“I’m sorry, I - I _can’t_ ,” was all Jean could whisper, his breath forming white clouds, ghosting over Marco’s skin. Slowly, he brought his hand back down, trying hard not to feel how soft his lips were. He took one step back, and then two, until there was enough distance between them. It hurt- it hurt so bad, but it was something he had to do. For Marco.

He couldn’t feel his nails biting his palms, and yet he held his fists tight. A cold gust of wind blew over them, and Jean shivered. He could taste bile at the back of his throat, when he had to walk past Marco.

_This is for your good, Marco._

His shoulder bumped against Marco’s, when he felt a hand wrap around his wrist.

“Wait, Jean- _Jean_!” Marco begged, pleaded, holding him in place.

He could feel the tears at the edges of his eyes, when Marco whispered one word:

“ _Please_.”

The word broke him into millions of jagged pieces, that sliced his skin apart. His tone hurt him so much- but Marco had to know; he had to know that this was the only thing he could ever give him. Anything but love.

There was nothing he could do - nothing, except wrench his arm free of his grasp, and walk away. His footings were weak, wobbly, incoherent - and yet he walked step by step, far away from the one person he loved, but could never have.

****

The ride back was slow, tiring and exhausting. But he couldn’t feel anything; he was too busy holding his pieces together, keeping them from falling apart too soon.

When he finally reached his apartment floor, he wrenched open the door to his house. He entered it slowly, and then shut the door close. When he did, a crippling sort of silence quivered in the air.

And then, everything fell apart.

The bags he held fell to the ground with a loud thud. His back hit the door hard, a weak wheeze escaping his lips. He couldn’t even keep himself up; he slid down the rough bark, till he crumpled on the floor. His breath was ragged, and his fingers shook as hard as his own voice.

 _Keep it together_ , he told himself. But then, all he could recall were deep stares, gold flakes circling around brown irises, and a series of gut-wrenching sentences:

‘ _You make me feel… real._ ’

Clumsy fingers clung onto blond roots, tugging them hard, driven by insanity.

_‘You made me feel so goddamn special.’_

Palms dragged across his eyes, and teeth dug through his lips, keeping back his emotions, locking them up inside his chest, deeper, deeper, _please-_

_‘I think I might be in love with you.’_

“Damn you, Marco,” he whispered into the silence of the night, his whisper that resonated loud in his ears. Tears stung his eyes, dripped down his chin, and a wretched sob broke him, as he said, “ _Damn you._ ”

****

*****

****

Jean had imagined that forgetting someone would be easy.

It would seem hard at first, but keeping the mind busy, keeping one’s thoughts far away from that person, and by simply moving on, anyone could forget someone within the month.

He should have known how it was quite the opposite.

No matter how much he occupied himself with chores around the coffee shop, no matter how he avoided thinking of him, no matter how hard he tried to move on - there was no way he could forget Marco Bodt. The slightest of giggles reminded him of his familiar bouts of laughter; the tiniest of smiles he’d catch from mere strangers reminded him of beaming grins from a freckled man. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of him - and there was nothing he could do, nothing that could just make him forget.

How could he? He was the only one who knew Jean deeper than the rest. He could make him laugh at the tiniest of things; he was kind, gentle, smart - he was beautiful, in every sense of the word. He was important, he was special.

And he had to blow it all away.

He had to distance himself away from him, pathetically so. He had to run far, far away from Marco, and possibly even break him in the process - and really, it was all his cowardly self knew how to do; all his scattered pieces could do was destroy others. All his clumsy hands could do was break the hearts of the people he cared for.

For that reason, half of him was glad Marco stopped coming to the ‘ _Bouquet_ ’. He was even glad he stopped messaging him, too; it helped ease the pain that had been spreading across his chest, for the mere sight of Marco would have just filled him with regrets, clogging right up to his throat.

But then, his other half was wild. It was wild, and reckless. It was the same half that wanted to catch a glimpse of that bright smile again, hear that prince-like laughter, see those freckles dotting skin again. It was a part of him that wanted nothing but to meet him again, and love him, for real.

(Yet again, he didn’t know how to. He knew nothing of how to fix people - only break them.)

****

Days passed by ever since that uneventful day. Jean’s thoughts had been taking their toll on him; eventually, he began growing tired, his gait grew weaker, and bags under his eyes curved themselves permanently. He just felt numb. Chores that once gave him motivation and happiness, like serving people flowers, now only served to slow him down even more.

The toll must have been serious, for his friends noticed - though, they had no clue why.

“Hey, man,” Connie approached him one night, when they were closing up shop, “we’re going out to the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’, again - you wanna come?”

Jean ignored the way his heart hurt in his chest, instead biting out a response: “N-no.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’ve been working for so long, and you look as if you’ve been awake for a whole month. You need to relax-”

“I said I’m _fine_ , Connie,” Jean returned, his voice gone more venomous than he intended.

Ymir was the one to cut in: “Jean, stop lying to yourself. You aren’t fine - anyone can see that!”

“Yeah,” said Connie, “take a night off. Or you tell us what happened, at least - you haven’t been yourself for a while. Let us help you - we’re here for you-”

Jean’s nostrils flared. “Really?” he snapped, “Well, who said I need your help?!”

His voice echoed within the confines of the small coffee shop. Chest heaving, his hands fell limp at his sides. His breath caught in his throat when he saw how shocked, how bewildered his coworkers looked, an indifference clouding their sight; they stared at him as if they could not recognize the man that stood before them - or rather, the _absence_ of a man, a friend they once knew.

He bit his lip, keeping in any more words he’d end up spouting. As he dragged the rag across the tabletop, he threw it aside tiredly.

“I’m done for the night,” was all he mumbled, before grabbing his coat and muffler, and heading out from the backdoor.

He heard his friends retort from behind him, but their words were just wind, when he shut the heavy door behind him.

With a bang, the noise echoed across the street. Jean saw how empty it was; the dark street was vacant, void of a single soul. There was practically no sign of life anywhere, across the still, quiet night. It gave him enough reason to walk fast, faster, till he was sprinting, running away from the mess he oh-so-brilliantly spilled everywhere.

‘ _We’re here for you_ ,’ they said, and ‘ _Let us help you’._ Those words were meant to be reassuring, right? They were meant to warm the heart and ease the mind; those kinds of words were meant to give hope, that one day, every kind of pain he had ever felt would just evaporate into thin air, into nothingness.

But those words his dear friends spoke sent a cold chill down his spine, spread anxious trails of thoughts across his mind, and made his heart throb in his chest - it did nothing, if not just make him feel weak, weaker than he already was. But why?

His frenzied steps soon led him into his house, where he sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. He kept on repeating that word: why? Why did such words of reassurance make him feel bad? Why couldn’t any good thing that had ever happened in his life fit in him, make him feel proud - happy, even?

Why couldn’t he have the things he wanted?

****

*****

****

Days passed by gruesomely slow, and Jean’s working hours even more so. The chilly wave of winter around mid-December did not help his situation at all; the wind was stone cold, and chilled him deep till his very bones.

But then, Christmas was just a week away - one could feel the warm, buzzing anticipation in the air; wherever Jean turned, he’d be blinded by the jolly colors of red, green and white. One could see the excitement on everyone’s faces; as the festive holiday came nearer, more people began buzzing around streets and shops, they grew more eager, and even annoyingly festive (Jean had lost the number of people he had seen in ugly Christmas sweaters - already). But no one could deny how they grew happier and jollier as the days passed by, somehow forgetting any past regrets and problems they might have faced before. They smiled more often than Jean was used to.

Despite how warm the coffee shop was - more so when their Christmas-sales had skyrocketed - he could not feel the heat penetrate him. While serving coffee, while pulling out trays of cakes and baked goods, while wrapping papers and ribbons around pretty bouquets, the heat never seemed to reach him. The customers he saw around him were always warm, smiling around their cups - feeling at peace. Jean envied them; that kind of warmth they felt - a flaring warmth in his chest he himself once felt - was something he was on the brink of forgetting. And that frightened him.

What frightened him more was how his friends began talking to him lesser, giving him too much space. Connie no longer teased him; Ymir stopped giving him shit-eating grins and her infamous smirks; Eren kept conversation light and short, never the one to be too eager. Lashing at them like that must have scared them away, because whenever he tried meeting their eyes, he was met with a flicker of doubt - a gaze that never felt real. It felt forced. It felt cold to him.

But he had to get used to it. He caused the mess, and he’d be the one to suffer in it. He never knew much of anything else, did he?

So he ignored the heat that surrounded him, but never touched him; instead, he breathed in the cold, stinging air, reveling in the coldness he was all too, too familiar with.

****

It was the dead of night, and as usual, Jean could not sleep. He twisted and turned on his bed, he changed sides, he squeezed his eyes shut - he even began counting sheep - and yet no kind of slumber made his eyes heavy. He turned to his left, and peered at the outside world, right through his window. He suppressed a hollow laugh when he did - it was black, as black as the night that descended over them. What did he expect - another painting by the ever infamous Universe? Did he expect a brilliant clash of colors that would make him feel delighted from the inside? He cursed himself internally at the mere prospect.

Just then, his phone vibrated.

He pawed at the mattress beside him, till fingers curled around cold metallic edges. Sliding it open, the bright light blinded him for a moment; he squinted through the sheer light, reading his notification. His breath hitched when he read it:

_2 unread messages from: Marco._

He could not bring himself to believe it. After three weeks of total absence of a ray of utter warmth and happiness, he finally got a message from him - at midnight. He gulped dryly; he did not.know whether he should be angry, delighted - or scared.

The way his breath shuddered out of his lungs made him realise he was shivering. He didn’t let the chill catch his mind - or else he’d go insane. Instead, he bit his lip, and opened the message, as a measly attempt to pull off a brave bravado.

 **_From Marco:_ ** _hey, its me. I bet youre wondering why im texting u at a time like this. Well, i felt like i had to._ _i wanted to apologizs for what i did back at Time Square. it was wrong on my part to even force u in such a situation. i dont know what got in me, but i truly am sorry for potentially ruining a good day. i’ll be leaving for Chicago on Christmas eve (can u believe it?) so i assumed now was a good time to apologize. so yeah. im sorry.  
_**_From Marco:_ ** _i wanna take this time to be honest, too. whatever i said back then was true - i really really care for u. simply denying it would be useless. youre so special to me, and i want u to remember that, even when im gone. youve changed me, and im so thankful for that. so thank u for helping me. thank u for being there for me. take care_

Jean was unable to even breathe, his lungs constricted by unspoken feelings clogged inside his veins for too long, too long to even consider healthy. His mind felt sluggish, when the only thing he could think of was, _No, Marco; you’re special to me, you always were, I’m crazy for you, I love you- don’t leave, don’t leave-_

But he _would_. Marco would leave, walking away from a hollow nobody, moving on to a new city. He would meet new people with new faces and new personalities he was bound to like more than Jean’s. He would enjoy their presence better - he could even fall in love with someone again, someone who would love him back with all their heart and pride, who would give him everything he ever wanted;

He could fall in love with someone who deserved him. He could love someone who was just better than Jean could ever hope to be.

That left a bitter taste in his mouth. Someone was always just better than him, right? Someone was always going to be two steps ahead of Jean’s own measly steps, becoming better. An empty chuckle escaped his mouth, as he stared at the words typed by Marco:

‘ _Youre so special to me._ ’

_You’re wrong, Marco. I’m not special; I’m pathetic._

It was just a thought, but it echoed across his mess of a mind a little too much, travelling far and wide, screaming into the deep void of his mind. It was a word he was so used to - and yet, when it bounced off his skull repeatedly, sunk its sharp teeth into his flesh, and jarred through his very bones, that simple word hurt. It hurt more when every part of him seemed to have been etched by it - _pathetic_.

There was a loud thud, breaking his train of self-depreciating thoughts. And then his cellphone was not in his hand, but across the room, as he threw it hard. His back no longer stood straight; he curled into himself, head in his hands, fingers grasping for his hair, tugging and pulling hard. He still could not breathe, wheezing through his nose in short puffs and pants, and his mind was a complete mess.

He had to get out.

He had to leave.

Feet scrambled upon marbled floors. And the next minute, he was throwing a coat around his shoulders, and leaving his house swiftly.

Feet slapped across tiled stairs, echoing around him. But he didn’t care how his legs burned. He didn’t care how his breathing became more ragged. He didn’t care, he didn’t care, he didn’t _care_ -

There was a gust of wind so sudden, it made Jean wince. It was then that he saw his own two feet on a dark, dark ground, and his head in an even darker sky. Cold wind whipped at his clothes, tearing them apart as he realized: he was on the roof top - all alone.

Pants left his mouth in white tufts of smoke-like mist, curling around the air in strange patterns. They stood stark white against the utter darkness. Jean’s eyes trailed at their foggy ends, as they twirled and twisted on and on, dissipating into nothingness moments later. For a blissful moment, he forgot he was ever cold.

He sat himself on the floor, leaning against a wall behind him. He tipped his head back, and stared at the sky above him. The way the wind rushed over him threatened to bring in a shit-ton of snow, but the sky told a different story; it was dark, yet strangely… empty. There was no cloud to speak of, not even the slightest speck of white. It was black and wide, like a gaping void that had no limits. Jean felt if he could thrust his hand up, in that gaping vastness, he was sure he could never find an end to it; it could go on and on, as empty as it had been a billion years ago, before the Universe came to being.

( _Talk about a way to relate with the Universe_ , he thought, smirking with no shred of humor, _we both are empty, and alone_.)

Jean never registered the creaking of a door, and a bang. He never felt the presence of someone beside him - until he heard a familiar voice:

“I figured you’d be here; I don’t know anyone else who’s smart enough to sit outside in the cold - at such an ungodly hour.”

Without turning his face, Jean sighed. “Lookin’ for something, Eren?”

He felt him shrug. “Nah, I’m just here to keep you from trouble.”

Jean only huffed in response, directing his attention back to the world above him.

Moments later, Eren spoke again:

“Look, Jean; you sitting up here in the dead of night just staring at the sky isn’t just some new habit - something’s wrong, and you gotta tell me.”

Jean felt acid sting his throat. “It’s- it’s nothing-”

“It’s _not_ nothing. You aren’t okay, okay? Admitting it won’t- won’t make you weaker. I’m trying to help you - we’re trying to help you. So let us.”

He wanted to protest more, keeping any feeling that threatened to spill all over back inside his chest, stomping it down and locking it up. But the way his green, demanding eyes seared holes into Jean’s skull… It made him pull his knees up against his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

What was worse - a part of him wanted to give in; a part of him wanted nothing more than to break there and then, open his chest wide, and pour every toxic thought he had ever come up with out into Eren’s helping hands.

(But when one would build tall walls around their minds, one would get afraid to put down their defenses too much, fearing an attack they never even anticipated.)

But the way Eren still waited for a reply, Jean had no choice: with simple words, that still shook as the wind persisted around them - he told him everything; he told him from how Marco opened up to him one night, right where the two of them just sat; he told him of a few days later, how the same freckled man confessed his love for him - and how Jean ran away; he even mentioned his text messages that he got moments ago.

When he was done, his own mouth was parched. He shut it close, and rested his chin on his knees, sighing away. As his eyes followed the trails of mist that was his own breath, he couldn’t help but imagine what Marco might have felt when Jean turned away; how much his heart might have hurt, like a knife running deep in between his ribs, twisting till all that remained was a hole, where his heart would have been. He tried imagining what kind of hell he might have gone through - all because of his stupidity. All because of his own cowardice.

He hugged his legs tighter - though he couldn’t feel a thing.

Even Eren was quiet for some time, his head tipped back to stare at the sky. Maybe he was silent in thought, or was just appreciating the night a little more. Even he wasn’t sure.

After what felt like forever, Eren finally spoke up:

“Hm, so that’s what it all was…”

“Yeah.”

Then there was silence.

And then: “It was so obvious, though.”

Jean finally turned to look at him. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I _mean_ ,” he stressed, “it was so obvious how much the guy was crazy for you.”

Heat flushed his face, despite the cold. “W-what?”

“Not anyone would visit the same damn cafe everyday, for more than three weeks, now would they? He was coming in to meet _you_ , and you only - Connie wasn’t the one to believe it at first, but I knew it.”

Jean didn’t realize he was shaking his head, until Eren did the same, saying, “No, Jean, don’t go shake your head like that. It’s true - he actually did fall for you - really hard. Even a blind man could tell!”

Jean shook his head harder, wrenching his gaze away. He never saw Eren mirroring his posture, as he asked, gently:

“He loves you, Jean, you get that?”

He nodded.

A pause. And then-

“And do you love him?”

He didn’t answer that straight away; after a minute, he nodded - though his mind was screaming out the answer.

He heard Eren sigh beside him. Then, in a voice as gentle as a whisper, he asked on: “So what’s stopping you, huh?”

Jean acted like a child, avoiding his friend’s green gaze as best as he could. He bit the inside of his cheek, as he came up with his answer to that - what was stopping him?

He spoke the first thing that came in his mind: “I’m… afraid.”

“Of what?”

“I’m afraid that- that I won’t be able to help him when he’ll need it. I- I’m afraid that he won’t get what he deserves from me because- because I’m not- I’m just not-”

“What? You’re not good enough?”

Jean had been saying those words to himself many times, but when Eren spoke them, it stung him hard, like acid corroding him away. His breath hitched in his throat. He bit his lip hard, as he nodded.

“Jean,” Eren huffed, exasperated, “have you seen how he looks at you?”

Jean snapped his eyes at him.

He continued: “He looks at you as if you’re some treasure he’s not ever gonna get again in his life. He stares at you as if he’s looking at you for the last time - and he’s always smiling, whenever he looks at you, like a _fool_. Not just anyone does that!”

“What are you trying to tell me, huh?”

“I’m _telling_ you that you’re being dumb right now - because he’s crazy for you, and you’re just as crazy for him; nothing should be stopping you!”

“What if I don’t deserve him, huh?” Jean flared, “What if all I can ever give him is heartbreak? I always get scared, Eren. I always stumble, I stutter - I fucking ran away like a coward that night he told me he loved me!”

He was panting, until he sighed tiredly. “I’m not the one for him, Eren,” he said, “I can’t be. He- he deserves someone who can love him better; I can’t give him all that- I can’t care for him the way somebody else can- I- I-”

He gulped in dry, cold air, and pulled at his own hair again and again,as he coughed out those words:

“I can’t - I _can’t_ be the one for him.”

(The way his voice crumbled in between made Jean grimace at himself.)

Time lapsed between the two slowly. Jean was just too drained to care; he just stared up at the cold, hollow night hovering above him, trying to seek comfort in the fact that he wasn’t the only one who felt the same - cold, and hollow.

Moments that felt like an eternity passed by, until Eren told him:

“Y’know, my mom always told me that when people love each other, then nothing else matters; race, sect, religion… nothing. When two people love each other - flaws and qualities combined - then no force in this entire Universe can keep the two apart, you hear me?”

Jean heard him well - he heard him well.

“You make him feel happy - and I’m guessing he does the same to you,” he explained further, “Not anyone can do that to someone; it takes someone really special to do that, y’know.”

Jean nodded, but slowly, lazily. Of course he made him feel happy - happier than he had ever felt in his entire life. And he was so goddamn special - words could never describe it. And yet-

“You can say all that you want, Jean, but you can’t deny how much you love him, can you?”

That made Jean look at him again - not in a flare of anger, or shock; he just stared at his green eyes, deeply.

Eren shrugged, and then got up. He was dusting his jeans, when he said, “You said he was leaving, right?”

Jean nodded from where he sat. “On Christmas Eve.”

“Well, you’ve got exactly six days to decide - whether you want him to stay, or not. Do you love him so much, that you’ll trust the Universe to do it’s thing, or will you let him go? It’s for you to decide, so choose well. See you later,” was all he said, before walking away, vanishing as soon as he had come to Jean.

Moments passed by with Jean shivering in the cold, but he couldn’t bring it in himself to move from there - not when there was only one thought echoing in his mind:

Was the Universe that kind? Could the Universe let him have Marco for himself, without any trouble or restraints - just by the simple force of love?

****

*****

****

The days of the month fell so swiftly, Jean could not even tell that the days had passed on; it wasn’t until one morning, when he was getting ready for another day of work, that he glanced at his cellphone’s calendar - and saw the date:

_Thu, Dec 24._

It was Christmas Eve.

His heart clenched in his chest when he realized that it was the same day when someone promised they’d leave.

Marco was leaving him.

He couldn’t avoid how his heart sunk, as unsung feelings rose up in his throat, making him unable to breathe. He clenched his eyes close, and swallowed them down, stomped on them, locked them up. _Keep it together,_ he begged himself. _Keep it together. Keep it together._

For the rest of the day, he did just that; he swallowed his emotions, stomped on them, and then locked them up. Seeing how busy the coffee shop was on the Eve of Christmas, the feat was not too hard; he kept himself busy with orders of peppermint lattes and ginger-breads, kept himself upbeat for the customers’ satisfaction. But whenever he gave away a flower to someone, along with a tiny bunch of mistletoe, all wrapped in a red ribbon striped with green, seeing their happiness made Jean’s own heart turn hard and bitter; it was something he could feel once upon a time as easily as the one before him. Not anymore.

When the sun dipped below the horizon, people began thinning from the once crowded cafe. The talk out in the streets was that at midnight, there was going to be a really big surprise in Time Square, right where the big Christmas tree stood. Everyone wanted a good view of it all, and so decided to leave straight away. Soon enough, even the streets began thinning, as more and more people began moving away.

Even workers in the ‘ _Bouquet_ ’ were talking about going there. They knew that the shop would be long-gone empty at nine, so locking it up soon to head over to Time Square seemed like a better notion to them all.

When they were deciding on it, Jean was back in the kitchen, washing stray, dirty dishes. Running a soggy sponge over a plate with chocolate smears on its white surface, he heard Ymir from the main doors:

“Hey, Jean! We’re leaving for the surprise at Time Square! You come along, too!”

Jean was shaking his head way before she had even completed her sentence, ignoring the way his breath hitched at the mention of Time Square. “No, sorry - I gotta lock this place up…”

He could practically feel Ymir roll her eyes in her own skull, as she insisted, “Oh, c’mon Jean! Someone else can lock up for the night-”

“Oi, oi, oi,” said Eren suddenly, from deep within the storage room, “I’ll help Jean lock the place up quickly. We’ll catch up, so you guys go on ahead!”

Ymir and the rest accented their agreements, before leaving the shop with hearty laughter and high spirits. As they did, the entire room fell into a still silence; no other sounds came, none except the sloshing of dirty water in the sink, and the soft thuds of vases being polished and replaced. Jean would have appreciated the silence, would have liked the peace it brought, but the way he felt so weighed down stopped him from doing so; as if an invisible weight hung from his neck, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to move - he felt restrained, utterly so. Most of all, he just felt so fucking _tired_.

He was tired of working. He was tired of waking up alone and miserable, and sleeping the same way. He was tired of pretending to be fine during the day, tired of pulling off a fake smile for all his customers, tired of having to meet his own dead eyes with lively ones. He was tired of having to live each grueling day, only to feel an absence of warmth, a cold feeling that was once filled by a bright, bright man, with stars on his skin.

(He was tired having to understand that the absence was all his own fucking fault.)

“Hey, Jean,” he heard Eren break his train of thought.

Sluggishly, Jean turned around, letting go of the last dish in his hand, and facing Eren fully. He nodded once, with a questioning glance.

Eren sighed through his nose, as he studied Jean slowly. He said, “I’ve done my chores. I’m gonna head off to my house… Mom won’t like it if I make it late again. You okay finishing up the rest?”

“Yeah, sure,” he answered automatically, as he dried up his own hands against his apron. He was used to it, after all.

But once where he’d hear the loud thud of a door closing, he heard Eren speak again:

“And Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“You still got plenty of time, y’know.”

There was a hiccup, and a hitch; and then he could feel those feelings erupt within his chest again, threatening to flow over, creating yet another mess.

He swallowed it down again, as he croaked out, “Y-yeah. I know.”

“And you can get him back.”

Jean didn’t reply this time, instead turning his head away.

“You _can_ ,” Eren stressed, “because it's never too late to do the right thing - it’s never too late to do something that you know you want. Remember that.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then he said again:

“You’re always a better, happier person with Marco, man. It takes someone really special to feel like that. You get a feeling like that only once in your life  - you can’t let that go, ever.”

Jean could start tasting blood from where he was biting his lip so hard - but he still resisted, he still restrained himself.

“You better remember that, Jean. Well, see you later. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he croaked out, but just as the words left his mouth, he heard the closing of the door once more.

Silence filled the vacant coffee shop again, a shop he really liked. It was a shop he once found comfortable, as he sought a peace within the confines of it’s warm walls that he seldom found out in the open streets of New York City. It was a sort of peace that made his chest warm and fuzzy, and made him feel good about something.

But when the silence persisted for too long, he hated it. He wheezed raggedly through his teeth, and his fingers shook. He felt anything but peace - he felt like hell. He felt wrong, he felt out of place-

-because the one place where he felt right, where he felt okay, was when he was around Marco.

_But I can’t have him, I can’t, I can’t, I don’t deserve him-_

Feet dragged across the smooth, marbled tiles beneath him, as he collapsed on a lone chair. He rested his elbows on the table before him, and knitted his fingers beneath his chin. Grudgingly, he turned to look at the clock:

The clock struck ten. He turned back around, staring at the table again.

On Christmas, Marco wouldn’t be there. In all the oncoming days, Marco would not live in New York, anymore; he would be out in Chicago, planning his career in comedy ahead. Soon, he’d even skyrocket in the sky high, as the name of the famous Marco Bodt would start spreading all over America: Marco Bodt, the comedian; Marco Bodt, the entertainer;

Marco Bodt, who got lost in Walmart a lot; Marco Bodt, who didn’t like coffee and bad Halloween puns; Marco Bodt, who had a thing for pastel colors and flowers; Marco Bodt, who wore pretty sweaters and mint green glasses; Marco Bodt, who had a bright laugh and an even brighter personality;

Marco Bodt, who loved making people laugh; Marco Bodt - a man who Jean fell in love with.

The thought never failed to bring a wave of anxious ‘ _what if_ ’s flooding in his mind, but he couldn’t help agreeing to that fact - he loved him.

He loved him so much it hurt. He loved him so much that his mere absence felt like hell. He loved him so much that whenever he was around him, Jean felt at home.

He loved him - and yet, why couldn’t he have him?

‘ _Y’know, my mom always told me that when people love each other, then nothing else matters; race, sect, religion… nothing. When two people love each other - flaws and qualities combined - then no force in this entire Universe can keep the two apart…_ ’

That was what Eren had told him, one night; he had reassured him that when people were meant for each other, then the Universe could never ever force it’s own way in between the two. It could never keep them away from each, for a more unique force could always bring them back together - a force simply called ‘ _love_ ’.

He could call Marco, and tell him to stay; he could face him, and confess how much he loved him and his soul combined. He could do all that, and have faith in the Universe to let everything fall in place on its own. He could let _love_ bring the two of them together, instead of letting him go.

Because if he did, then there was no way he could ever come back.

If Jean let go of Marco, Jean could never feel warm ever again.

The thought made him shiver.

He glanced back at the clock. Only a few minutes had passed by. His eyes were glued to the minute hand, that ticked away. With clenched fists, he thought of what he must do; he could just trust the Universe, and believe that he was meant to be with Marco. He could tell him to stay forever. The act felt dauntingly easy, but he could - he _could_.

Yet, why didn’t he?

_You don’t deserve him, right? You don’t, you never will-_

_‘What’s stopping you, huh?_

As if a shard of glass broke, his toxic thoughts gave way to clear reason. The moment he recalled Eren’s words, he realised:

 _Nothing_.

Nothing was stopping him. __  
  


(The thought that the world could let him have Marco... it all felt unreal.)

(Yet, for a moment, it felt possible.)

__  
  


(A life without such a bright ray of sunshine - it was not what he wanted.) __  
  


He felt his legs rise. Standing up, he felt himself turn around, grab his coat, shut the lights out, step out of the shop, and lock the door behind him. When he did, the cold night air stung his cheeks, but he didn’t care - for he was running.

He was running, because as much as he was not perfect, he could not bear to live another day without a smile that made his heart sing. He could not let go of someone that special.

Whipping his cellphone out of his coat pocket, he dialed Marco’s number. He stopped halfway, pressing the cool surface against his ear.

It rung, and rung, and then ended in his old voicemail. Cursing to himself, he looked around; his cell wasn’t working, but he had to make it to him. He had to reach out to him, stop him from leaving - but how? How?

Helplessly, he glanced at his watch. It struck 10:30 of the night - what if he was gone by now? What if he was on his plane right now, anticipating a good ride to Chicago, away from him-

And then it hit him.

_I know where he is._

His feet were moving before he even registered the sharp slaps of his boots against cement, resonating into the cold night. The wind whipped across his skin, the cold air stinging his skin - but he couldn’t afford to slow down, not now.

Just as he turned around the corner of a street, he saw the dim blinking of two headlights, glowing a bright yellow that stood stark against the blackness of the night. When he squinted through the darkness, he saw it’s yellow top - it was a taxi cab.

Without a pause, Jean haled him over with a loud whistle. That caught the driver’s attention, for the sound of a revving engine filled the once-silent night. The yellow glare grew stronger as it approached Jean, till it blinded him for a moment.

As soon as it stopped, Jean wrenched its door open, seating himself behind the driver. He gave no chance for the driver to ask his destination, for he spout it out without hesitance, urging the driver to drive fast.

There was no doubt to it - he knew where he was.

****

The driver was obedient; he listened, and drove as fast as he could. Jean made a note to himself to thank God up above for the empty streets of New York; the lack of traffic helped the taxi cab to speed across the web-work of roads and streets expertly. The tall, grey buildings looked like nothing but a black blur as they whizzed past him, standing tall like dark trees of a dense forest. Jean kept bouncing his knee in bitter anticipation, and his teeth gnawed at his lips hard - but he couldn’t care less, not when his heart was ready to burst out of his ribs with nervousness, not when his chest was so solid with one fact:

He loved Marco. He loved him, and there was no damn way he was going to let him go.

The black blurry buildings surrounding them finally gave way to light when the brilliance of Christmas celebrations came into view; the open streets that were once empty were now flooded thick with people. Fairy lights glinted with bright reds, greens and whites above them, hung on lampposts, outside shops - everywhere.

Another thing he saw everywhere was the mass of utter traffic. Jean cursed under his breath - he should have expected that much; out on Christmas Eve, every kind of place would be bustling with busy people, eager to have a festive night.

Jean was vibrating in his seat as the taxicab drove deeper and deeper into the thick traffic. Car horns blared all around them noisily, and yet one could hear the enthusiastic chatter of people surrounding them thickly. When Jean spared a glance to his right, he caught sight images of big candy canes lit brightly over buildings. Some had candy canes, some had mistletoe, while the rest had snowflakes or Christmas tree baubles hanging from their surfaces. They shone themselves over the people with brightness, displaying their brilliant colors over everyone. Despite being in such a hurried state, hearing everyone’s laughter, seeing such brilliant sights around him… it made him smile softly.

When Jean turned to his left, his breath caught his throat:

There it was - the gigantic Christmas tree, standing tall and proud right in the center of Time Square, lit up with all its grace.

The taxicab didn’t move anymore; the traffic had clogged around them so thick, not a single vehicle could move an inch. But Jean had done his work - he found the right place.

He gave the taxi driver whatever money he asked for straight away, and stepped right out of the cab. He fought the sudden cold, as he crossed one street and then another, passed by strangers and vehicles combined, but he let nothing slow him down.

The tree loomed over him as he got closer, casting anything below itself in a great dark shadow. But it’s brilliant lights and decorations made up for the night’s darkness; they stood out so starkly against it’s dark leaves, one would have to squint if they got too close.

Jean was squinting by the time he was done walking, staring at the tree hard. His breath came out in ragged pants, turning into mist that dissolved into nothingness when it hit the light. People bustled around him in dense clusters. A few even ran into him, pushed him with mean glances and gestures, but he couldn’t care; it was there that he had once stood with Marco, stared at the tree light up, and heard Marco tell him that he loved him.

Back then, he had ran away - but now, he truly loved him back.

He had to find him.

Finally getting back to his senses, he looked around; there were too many people around him, too many strangers through which he’d have to find one person. Panic threatened to engulf him again, when he helplessly searched for a freckled face, a pair of mint green glasses, a man bun, something-

And then, to his far left, he caught sight of a white beanie. It was snow white, standing brightly against the wave of people around them. He could have mistaken it for any other plain, white beanie - but that one, that one wasn’t like the others. He was sure of it.

__  
  


Without any restraints, he called out, “Marco!”

But his shout was just a whisper within the mass of noise that surrounded all his four sides; Marco didn’t catch his call at all. He just stood there, staring at the large Christmas tree, his shoulders slumped - just like they had been back when Jean rejected him, told him that he _can’t_.

(The thought made his breath stop for a second - but he didn’t let himself engulf within his fiery self hatred. He couldn’t. Not now.)

He was moving again, pushing past people who walked on, weaving through men and women, children and the youth - just to get near to him. When only a few feet remained between the two, Marco took the chance to turn around just then. He shrugged his backpack higher over his shoulders, and walked away, still oblivious to his presence there. Jean’s eyes blew wide - he was leaving now.

 _No, no, no_.

It was all he could think of as he began taking larger strides, started dodging oncoming people with nudges and pushes, as he ran faster, faster, faster. He couldn’t leave, not now, not now-

“Marco! Hey, Marco!” he called out, but to no avail; Marco didn’t stop for a breath’s pause. He walked on in the other way, walking away from the Christmas tree, away from New York, away from him.

Then, he didn’t know what got into him. He pressed two fingers in his mouth, and blew a loud whistle.

It wasn’t too loud, but it pierced through the noise, till it reached Marco’s ears - he could tell, for he suddenly stopped.

Jean was still running towards him, too eager to finish the distance between the two, too damned impatient to see his face once again, too desperate to apologize to him, to tell him that he loved him.

He stopped the second Marco turned around.

There was a silence, even when there was so much chatter and laughter around the pair of them. But when amber eyes met brown ones, time seemed to have stopped for a moment; nothing mattered around Jean, not when he was seeing Marco again, after so many weeks of loneliness, emptiness, and utter coldness.

_God, he had missed him so much._

Marco’s eyes blew wide slightly. He blinked once, then twice. He licked his lips, and then said:

“J-jean? Why are you here?”

It was moments later Jean realized that Marco had asked something. But he couldn’t come to make himself reply; it felt as if he had swallowed his own tongue. His mind was a mess of unspoken words, as those feelings clogged in his throat. He wanted to shout them all out, wanted to tell him the truth, wanted to say something - but what? How?

“I’m leaving,” Marco said, “right now, actually. I- I wanted to stay a little while longer; I wanted to see the celebrations for a bit, but…” He didn’t complete himself, only shrugged with one shoulder, as he smiled sadly.

There was yet another pause where Jean said nothing. It was then that Marco sighed so tiredly, and said:

“Jean, if you’re here to say something, please say it already. I- I can’t do this now. Don’t make this h-harder for me...”

Jean resisted the way his gut twisted at how sad he sounded - that he was the one who made him feel like that. God it hurt so much-

_‘It's never too late to do the right thing…’_

Jean remembered those words Eren spoke to him back at the cafe. He held them close to himself, as he inhaled deeply. _Say something, just say something-_

He blurted out the first thing that came in his mind:

“ _I’m sorry_.”

That surprised Marco, for his eyebrows rose high above his eyes. His mouth opened around a small gasp, but Jean beat him to it.

He continued rambling: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for- for running away back then. I’m sorry for being so scared - I never meant to run away like that, with no explanation- I just- I just-”

He clenched his jaw tight, trying to hone all of his messy feelings shakily. Marco made a move to approach him, but Jean stopped him with one hand raised up.

“ _N-no_ ,” he said, “Let me explain myself.”

Marco looked reluctant to do so, but obliged.

Jean inhaled again, shakily so, and then began: “I ran away back then because I got scared - I- I got scared at everything you told me, because I never- I never thought anyone would say that to me. S-so yeah, it scared the shit outta me, and I’m so sorry, but… but I’ve never been honest with how I’ve felt - about you.”

Jean ignored the way Marco got a little closer, as he continued, with a wry chuckle:

“How do I begin? I- I remember being in the ‘ _Giggle Shack_ ’, and listening to your jokes, and it made me laugh so much - and they still do. I’ve never met anyone like you in my entire life; you’re kind, generous, smart, funny - you’re amazing. You understood me way better than anyone else I know.”

This time, Jean met Marco’s step ahead, but he didn’t stop his endless rambling:

“When I’m around you, I feel content. I don’t feel as if- as if I have to prove something. I feel- I feel happy. When I’m with you, I feel special - _you_ make me feel that way, Marco. And I can’t- I can’t let that go.

“You deserve the whole world - and I might not be perfect; I’ll get scared more often than not, but I- I won’t stop until I give you everything you deserve. I won’t give you anything less, because- because...”

Jean finished the distance between them with one step. Now, all that remained between them was a breath’s distance; Marco looked down at Jean with a deep, deep stare, but Jean had his own eyes closed. He was too busy reveling in his heat, his soothing warmth he had missed for so long.

He then felt a large, warm hand enclosed around his left one. When Jean opened his eyes, he saw his own pale, bony hand within the warm, large, freckly grasp of… of Marco.

Jean then took the chance to look up. Again, he was met by a strong gaze, a brown one so deep Jean could get lost within it. It was then that he saw Marco smiling so softly; the corners of his lips were turned upwards, and the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly, revealing his beautiful laughter lines. His eyes glittered brightly, just like the freckles on his cheek, and Jean could damn all other fairy lights that surrounded him, for that stare was enough.

Before, Jean would have hated to receive that gaze; before, Jean would have cowered beneath that loving stare, wanting nothing else but to run away, run away, run away.

But now, he felt happy. Now, he felt strong, he felt braver. It was that bravery he took from his bright smile, that made him say the last words, words he had been wanting to say for the last two months:

“Because I love you - more than I could ever imagine.”

There was another silence after that. No sort of conversation passed between the two - they could only hear the crowd around them, talking, laughing, cheering, blissfully unaware of everything.

And then, he felt him squeeze his hand hard. When Jean looked up once again, Marco was beaming; he was beaming, his teeth gleaming white, his freckles glowing beneath a pretty blush, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Then, Marco pulled Jean in a massive hug, knocking the breath right out of him.

Jean didn’t mind it at all; not when warm arms encircled his waist, not when his bright laugh tickled his hair, not when he felt so much warmer this close-

God, Jean could live there forever.

Daringly, he circled his own arms around Marco’s neck, and dug his face gently in the crook of his neck. He inhaled his sweet scent, and sighed. A smile blessed his face without complaint; it was the most peaceful, happiest, and warmest he had felt since forever. He felt happier when he realised how much he meant his own words - I love you.

_God, I love you, Marco._

And then, he was reminded of something.

He wrenched himself away from Marco a little, and asked, “W-will you leave?”

Marco didn’t reply straight away; for a moment, he only stared at him once more, his hands holding his waist in place. Maybe he was thinking of something to reply, or maybe he was just enjoying the moment.

Marco shook his head.

Jean’s eyes blew wide - more in disbelief than in shock.

“B-but Marco, what about your shot? I mean-”

“No, I’m not going.”

“What if you won’t get it again-”

“I don’t care - I’m staying! I won’t listen to you!”

“Oh, c’mon-”

“No! Can’t hear you! _La, la, la, la-_ ”

“Marco! But this is your life you’re talking about-”

This time he wasn’t interrupted by words - he was interrupted by warm hands, that held his cheeks so gently.

“My life isn’t my career, Jean,” Marco insisted, looking deep into his panicky eyes, “My life is how I choose to live it - and right now… I choose you.”

 _I choose you_ . Those words echoed across his mind again and again, resonating loudly within himself. In another time, he could have been flooded with anxious ‘ _what if_ ’s again and again, but now - now, that simple phrase eliminated everything else. Now, that simple phrase no longer scared him; it reassured him. It made him feel loved.

(For once, it made him feel like he actually deserved Marco.)

Jean didn’t realize he was smiling. He didn’t realize how close the two of them had gotten. He didn’t even realize how their foreheads touched, and how Marco nudged their noses together so lovingly.

But he did notice one thing: he was the one to tilt his head, and kiss Marco.

There were sparks again; but these weren’t the kinds that hurt. These were the kinds that popped and whizzed in his stomach when their lips touched. It was electrifying, despite being so gentle; Marco’s hands reached his waist, gripping him close, as he tilted his own face, kissing Jean more. His lips were so supple, so soft against Jean’s own chapped ones - and he was sure he’d never get enough of him. His arms wove themselves around his neck, bringing him so much closer, kissing him again, and again, and again.

When his fingers reached Marco’s stray hair, he felt his feet leave the ground - that was Marco lifting him up high.

Jean found himself laughing; he held Marco’s shoulders tightly, and kissed him, even when his lips tingled. There were people around them, possibly watching and judging the pair, but Jean could not bring himself to care for a slight second; he kissed his smile, he swallowed all his soft sighs and sounds of laughter, he absorbed all of his warmth, all of his love, all of him.

After what felt like an eternity, they pulled apart. Jean was back on the ground, yet he couldn’t stop panting. Marco was doing the same, except he was smiling as he did. His eyes glimmered behind fogged, crooked glasses - and he looked so damn cute.

“ _God_ ,” Marco breathed, his breath warm and minty over his skin, “I could- I could get used to that.”

Jean resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead shaking his head. A giggle escaped his lips unbidden; he could get used to this feeling of utter bliss, content, and love.

(He could get used to love.)

He was going to dive in for another kiss, until he heard a blast from behind him - a blast, and the cheers of a million people.

When Jean turned around, he saw fireworks fly out of all the corners of the huge Christmas tree. They glowed in all kinds of colors; red, green, yellow, blue, and many more. They twisted and turned, flying high in the sky. Lights over the tree’s leaves began twinkling on and off, timing itself with the loud Christmas carols ringing in the distance. The people around them cheered; they clapped, they laughed - some even began singing along with the festive songs echoing from unseen speakers. And above it all, Jean spied a big signboard, that had words over it, made out of different light bulbs. When they glowed, they read, ’ _Merry Christmas!_ ’”.

Jean kept staring at it all, enamored by how pretty everything looked. The lights, the music, the people… Everyone looked so happy. For that moment in time, it felt as if the entire of New York was happy - it felt as if the entire city was alive.

When Jean smiled, he felt something cold and wet fall on his cheek.

As he looked up, he saw _snow_ , falling from the sky, as soft as the wind, as flakes landed over all the cheery inhabitants of New York with all its elegance. Two caught Jean’s eyelashes; one caught the corner of his mouth. For no reason, he began laughing - laughing at how suddenly something as simple as snow began to make him feel so content. He laughed at how happy he felt; he laughed at how perfect everything felt around him. He could get used to that.

Just then, something warm encased his head.

When he turned around, he saw Marco without his beanie, for he had put it on Jean.

(Where Jean would have once fled, Jean smiled instead.)

His smile grew wider when Marco wished him softly, “Merry Christmas.”

Forgetting all the celebrations around him for a moment, Jean faced him fully. He brought his arms down, holding his shoulders instead. When he got closer, he trailed his hands up, up, till he cradled Marco’s jaw. From how close he stood, Jean could count all the freckles on his cheeks, nose, corners of his laughter lines, on the edges of his lips. There were so many; he could stare at them all night.

(He promised himself he’d count them one day - one day, he’d have them all memorized.)

One snowflake fell on a freckle on his nose; Jean was the one to wipe it away with the tip of his finger, the motion gentle - gentle enough to make Marco laugh.

Nudging his nose with Marco’s, Jean whispered his own precious wish, before kissing him again:

“Merry Christmas.”

****

It was late night; the snow had become lighter than before, yet the cold persisted. The noise of so many people cheering around them had become too suffocating for the two of them, as they had stood there longer; Marco had taken his hand, and led him away. When Jean asked where he was taking him, Marco had smiled, simply saying, “Home.”

He wasn’t sure whose home he meant by that - but the way he said it so warmly, so lovingly, Jean couldn’t help but blush.

His trek back ‘ _home_ ’ had led the two of them at the back of a lone, empty bus. They sat back, hand in hand, as they awaited a long journey.

The bus rumbled on as it proceeded; outside, the world was just a black blur, punctuated occasionally by the white, cool snow that fell against the glassed windows slowly.

But Jean didn’t trace it’s trickling patterns on the window pane; he took the time to trace the curves and lines of Marco’s hand, which was wrapped around his own. Jean never noticed how big his hand was; he never noticed how warm it was, either. It made him eager to learn his grip, his touch, his skin - everything.

Everything was silent; comfortably silent. Marco had his cheek pressed on top of Jean’s head, while Jean had his own cheek rested against Marco's shoulder. Everything felt so comfortable around them, so content - and yet, Jean couldn’t help but feel a disturbance inside his mind, a single anxious thought that wouldn’t go away. He had to know.

He bit his lip as he asked, “Why me?”

His voice was soft, timid, a whisper - it was a surprise that Marco could even hear him.

Jean felt him tense beside him - just slightly. He then nudged at Jean’s head softly, making him look up.

He gave a questioning glance to the blond, confused at his question.

Licking his chapped, tingly lips, Jean asked again, meeting Marco’s gaze, “Why me? Out of everyone you’ve ever met, out of everyone in this entire Universe - _why me_?”

He was praying Marco understood what he asked, for he could think of no other way to word out that damned feeling of inadequacy.

Marco didn’t reply for a while; he only stared at Jean again, silent as the night around them. Jean was starting to become impatient - until he saw him lift his free hand, and tracing Jean’s cheek with his finger. The act was so soft, so gentle, it sent tingles through his entire body.

He then took another long moment in silence, running a finger up and down his cheek slowly, soothingly. When his brown eyes had studied his entire face through his glasses for the millionth time, Marco chose his reply:

“Why _not_ you?”

He said nothing more. He spoke no planned speech, no uselessly poetic lines - nothing; he spoke just three words strung together so delicately, one could have mistaken them for words with no meaning at all. But when Marco said it, staring at Jean as if he were some precious treasure - Jean could literally feel that feeling of inadequacy evaporate into complete nothingness.

Jean just shook his head - in pure amazement, fascination, love, he wasn’t sure. But he just stared at Marco, shaking his head, and just reflecting on how perfect Marco was - and how much he loved him.

Words could never truly describe how much he did love him; words could never hone all that he felt for Marco into simple phrases. So he didn’t say a word; he simply leaned in close and pressed his lips against his in a gentle kiss; it was slow, but he tried his best to make Marco feel, make him believe that what he felt for him will always be greater than the Universe.

And when Marco sighed against his mouth, Jean was sure he did.

They continued kissing like that more than a few times. Jean continued making him know that he loved him over and over, through whispers and sighs against soft lips and skin. And there, as the pair of them sat inside that insignificant bus, crossing another insignificant road, within an insignificant part of an insignificant city - he didn’t feel so insignificant.

No, he didn’t; when his head rested upon the shoulder of a freckled comedian, who loved flowers and making people laugh - he actually felt bigger than the Universe.

**Author's Note:**

> HUFFFFF this was a really really long thing that ive been working on for a month. And im really anxious about this, so please do let me know on how I did! u may comment kind words or constructive criticism - i wont mind! I'll appreciate the love and help! <3
> 
> for more go visit my [tumblr](http://kirschtrash.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/kirschtrash)!


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